wiMPWiMifflHi^ililHll^^ 






rang 








SS^ 




.* 




" His pleasure in the Scottish woods 

Three summer's days to take." — Frontispiece. 



B— — ■Will » 



BALLADS AND LYRICS. 



SELECTED AND ARRANGED BY 



HENRY CABOT LODGE. 







BOSTON: 
HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY, 

11 EAST SEVEXTEEXTII STREET, NEW YORK. 

\ 



\ 



Copyright, 1880, 
By HOUGHTOX, OSGOOD & CO. 

All rights reserved. 



RIVERSIDE, CAMBRIDGE : 
STEREOTYPED AND PRINTED 
H. 0. HOUGHTON AND COMPANY. 



PEEFACE. 



The favor with which this collection has been 
received has seemed to its publishers to warrant a 
new edition in a different form. In thus offering 
it to a wider public than that for which it was in- 
tended, a few words are necessary to explain its 
original purpose, in order to account for both omis- 
sions and insertions which would otherwise appear 
inexplicable. 

The collection was designed for the use of boys 
and girls between the ages of twelve and eighteen 
in our public and private schools. This class of 
readers, I need hardly say, covers not only a wide 
variety of age, capacity, and disposition, but a still 
wider range of opportunity and association, from 
children who have every advantage, both at home 
and in school, to obtain books and know about lit- 
erature, to those who unfortunately have books 
only in school and must go, for more extended 
reading, without a guide to our public libraries. 
The poem which will appeal without explanation 
to one child is dumb to another, and it is for this 



5 u PRE FA CE. 

\ 

\ reason that this collection ranges from the '* Sol- 

\ dier from Bingen " and the " Old Sergeant " to 

\ Milton's '• LLAlleoTo " and the Sono^s of Shake- 

\ speare. It children will read the former, or can he 

induced to do so, tliere is no reason why they can- 
not be led on throuo^h all the interveninor stages to 
the highest kind of poetry. 

The main purpose of the book, therefore, was of 
course educational. It was desifjned to bi-eed a lik- 
ing for good poetry, and to suggest more extended 
reading in the works, both in prose and in verse, of 
th-e best authors. TTith these objects, and for this 
class of readers, my choice was somewhat limited, 
and the rules which I followed in making the se- 
lection, although few, required strict observance. 
' The first essential point was to awaken iuterest, 

without which all attempts to teach are vain, and 
• this will explain the variety in the style of the 

poems and in their arrangement. Simplicity of 
I thought and diction w^as required in every poem 

I which was admitted, and this led to the introduc- 

tion of a large proportion of narrative poems or 
ballads, which were also, as it seemed to me, best 
fitted to interest children. The lyrics which were 
selected were, so far as possible, the simplest of 
their kind, both in form and in idea. 

I am well aware that a collection formed on these 
principles is very far from comprising all the best 



rariTiiiiiilliin.' 



PREFACE. iii 

ballads and lyrics in the language, and I also know 
that some of those contained in the collection are 
inferior to others which have been omitted. But 
many of our most beautiful lyrics are too compli- 
cated and too refined in thought and expression for 
boys and girls, and are suited only to men and 
women whose minds are more mature and culti- 
vated. Another very large class of lyrics of the 
greatest beauty deals wholly with love, and these 
were too intense in feeling for children, especially 
in schools where both sexes are represented. Still 
another class, a much smaller, but a very impor- 
tant one, was omitted on account of its sectarian 
fervor. Then, too, many poems not of the high- 
est order of merit were chosen because, as I have 
said, they would interest children when finer and 
more difficult ones might not, and would thus 
serve to pave the way and draw the reader on 
to better things. 

I believe not only that there are in the collec- 
tion many of the finest poems of their kind in the 
language, but also that there is nothing which is 
not good in itself, simple, true, and with the pos- 
sible exception of Poe's " Raven," which has found 
a place because of its wide renown and because no 
other example would do anything like justice to 
the author, nothing that is not thoroughly whole- 
some. The great difficulty was to avoid making 



IV PREFACE. ^ 

the collection too sober in tone, and 1 was far from 
being satisfied in this respect. But the number of ^ 

really humorous poems of genuine and enduring i 

merit is wofully small, most of them being either | 

perfectly ephemeral or of a kind which would not | 

appeal to children. This holds true, also, of light § 

and occasional verses and of satire, all of which 
abound in English poetry, and are of the highest 
merit, but which are, as a rule, in their nature un- 
suited to children, and fit only for more mature 
minds. The notes are simply the bare outlines of 
the biography of each poet, and were merely in- 
tended to give to children who desired it knowl- 
edge sufficient to enable them to obtain more and I 
better information. | 
i The collection has fully served its purpose if it I 
S has tended to develop a taste for good poetry, or I 
I if it has helped to open to children the splendid j 
1 and unbounded resources of English literature. In | 
I submitting it to the public at large in its new form, 
I I have explained its origin and scope, because I do 
I not wish it to be supposed that I regard it as a 
I complete or thoroughly representative collection of 
English ballads and lyrics. It contains, neverthe- 
less, very many of the finest specimens in the lan- 
guage of that class of poems which have been and 
always will be an enduring source of intellectual 
pleasure and of gratification to the imagination. 



PREFACE. V 

Despite the limitations, therefore, which were 
rendered necessary by the original object of the 
collection, I venture to hope that older readers will 
be glad to see many of the poems in this volume 
brought together in a convenient and accessible 
form. 

H. C. Lodge. 
East Point, { 

Nahant, June 15, 1882. \ 






i 



;^t<-v*'«^;f"?f«ik- 



CO^TEIsTTS. 



Chevy Chase. Anonymous, Old Ballad 

Sir Patrick Spens. Anonymous. Old Ballad . 

Ariel's Song. William Shakespeare. The Tempest 

A Sea Dirge. William ShaJcespeare. The Tempest . 

Ariel's Song. William ShaJcespeare. The Tempest 

Song. Thomas Heywood 

Song. William ShaJcespeare. As You Like It 

Character of a Happy Life. Sir Henry Wotton . 

Winter. William ShaJcespeare. Love's Labour 's Lost 

Song. William ShaJcespeare. Merchant of Venice 

Fairy's- Song. William ShaJcespeare. Midsummer 
Night's Dream 

Song of the Fairies. William ShaJcespeare. Midsum- 
mer Night's Dream 

Puck's Song. William ShaJcespeare. Midsummer Night's 
Dream 

Song. William ShaJcespeare. Cymbeline 

Song. William ShaJcespeare. As You Like It . 

Song. William ShaJcespeare. Cymbeline 

Song. William ShaJcespeare. Hamlet 

The Noble Nature. Ben Jonson 

Virtue. George Herbert 

To Blossoms. Robert HerricJc 

To LucASTA, ON Going to the Wars. Richard Love- 
lace 

To Daffodils. Robert HerricJc 

Go, Lovely Rose! Edmund Waller .... 

" I 'll Never Love Thee More." Marquis of Montrose 

L' Allegro. John Milton 

Il Penseroso. John Milton 



PAGE 

13 
22 

27 
28 
28 
28 
29 
30 
31 
32 

32 

33 

34 
35 
35 

36 
37 
37 
38 
39 

40 
41 
42 
43 
44 
50 



i vm CONTENTS. 

\ 

f PAGE 

f Song Written at Sea: *'To all you Ladies now 

' ON Land." Charles SacJcville, Earl of Dorset . 55 

Song for St. Cecilia's Day, 1687. John Dryden . 57 

Version of the Nineteenth Psalm. Joseph Addison 60 

; The Dying Christian to his Soul. Alexander Pope . 61 

■ Solitude. Alexander Pope 62 

{ To a Child of Quality. Matthew Prior ... 63 
Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard. Thomas 

Gray 65 

I The Bard: Pindaric Ode. Thomas Gray ... 70 

I Ode Written in MDCCXLVI. William Collins . 75 
On a Favorite Cat, Drowned in a Tub of Gold 

Fishes. Thomas Gray 76 

', Elegy on the Death of a Mad Dog. Oliver Gold- 

\ smith 77 

\ An Elegy on that Glory of her Sex, Mrs. Mary 

I Blaize. Oliver Goldsmith 79 

f Loss of the Royal George. William Cowper . 80 

Is there, for Honest Poverty. Robert Burns . 82 
The Solitude of Alexander Selkirk. William 

Cowper 84 

My Heart 's in the Highlands. Robert Burns . . 86 
The Diverting History of John Gilpin. William 

Cowper 86 

My Bonnie Mary. Robert Burns 96 

The Sleeping Beauty. Samuel Rogers ... 96 

John Anderson. Robert Burns 97 

Bruce to his Men at Bannockrurn. Robert Burns 98 
Bruce and the Abbot. Sir Walter Scott. Lord of the 

Isles 99 

Claud Halcro's Song. Sir Walter Scott. The Pirate 102 
The Song of Harold Harfager. Sir Walter Scott. 

The Pirate 103 

Hunting Song. Sir Walter Scott .... 105 
Song: County Guy. Sir Walter Scott. Qiientia Dur- 

ward 106 

Macpherson's Farewell. Robert Burns . . . 107 

The Poplar Field. William Cowper .... 108 

A Wish. Samuel Rogers 108 

The Banks o' Doon. Robert Burns . . . . I09 



CONTENTS. rs 

PAGE 

Evening. Sir Walter Scott. The Doom of Devorgoil . 110 

Song. Sir Walter Scott. Waverley .... Ill 

Glenaea. Thomas Campbell 113 

LocHiNVAR. Sir Walter Scott. Marmion . . . 115 
LoED Ullin's Daughter. Thomas Campbell . . 117 
The Crusader's Return. Sir Walter Scott. Ivanhoe 119 
Elspeth's Ballad. Sir Walter Scott. The Antiquary 120 
HoHENLiNDEN. Thomas Camjjbell . . . . 122 
Song : The Cavalier. Sir Walter Scott . . .124 
Glee for King Charles. Sir Walter Scott. Wood- 
stock 125 

The Soldier's Dream. Thomas Campbell . . . 126 

RosABELLE. Sir Walter Scott. Lav of the Last Minstrel 127 

Pibroch of Donuil Dhu. ^^V Walter Scott . . . 129 
Love of Country. Sir Walter Scott. Lay of the Last 

Minstrel * . . 130 

Life and Death. Anna Lcetitia Barbauld . . . 131 
The Burial of Sir John Moore, at Corunna. Charles 

Wolfe 132 

Boat Song. Sir Walter Scott. Lady of the Lake . 133 

Sea-Song. Allan Cunningham ..... 135 

Song. Sir Walter Scott. Rokeby 136 

Song. Sir Walter Scott, Rokeby . . . . 138 

Battle of the Baltic. Thomas Campbell . . . 139 

Ye Mariners of England. Thomas Campbell . Ill 

Border Ballad. Sir Walter Scott. The Monastery . 113 

The Foray. Sir Walter Scott 113 

The Journey onwards. Thomas Moore . . . Ill 

Jock of Hazeldean. Sir Walter Scott . . , 116 f 

The Inchcape Rock. Robert South ey .... 117 } 
The Lamentation for Celin. J. G. Loclchart. Span- \ 

ish Ballads 150 \ 

The Pride of Youth. Sir Walter Scott. Heart of I 

Mid-Lothian 153 | 

She Walks in Beauty. Lord Byron . . . 153 
She was a Phantom of Delight. William Words- 

wortli ; . . 151 

Hymn for the Dead. Sir Walter Scott. Lay of the 

Last Minstrel 156 

The Destruction of Sennacherib. Lord Byron . 157 



-t- 



X CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

Rebecca's Hy:mx. Sir Walter Scott. Ivanhoe . . 158 

Vision of Belshazzak. Lord Byron .... 159 
The Bridal of Andalla. J. G. LocWiart. Spanish 

Ballads 161 

Coronach. Sir Walter Scott. Lady of the Lake . . 163 

Helvellyn. Sir Walter Scott 164 

The Lord of Butrago. J. G. LocJchart Spanish 

Ballads 166 

KuBLA Khan. Samuel Taylor Coleridge . . . 167 
Bernardo and Alphonso. J. G. LocJchart. Spanish 

Ballads 169 

Bernardo del Carpio. Felicia Hemans . . . 172 

To THE Poets. John Keats 176 

The Cloud. Percy Bysslie Shelley .... 178 
Pro Patria 1sIob.i. Thomas Moore . . . .181 
The Landing of the Pilghim Fathers. Felicia 

Ilemans 182 

To the Memory of Edward the Black Prince. Sir 

Walter Scott. Rob Roy 183 

The Isles of Greece. Lord Byron . . . 184 

Hester. Charles Lamb 188 

Winter. Percy Bysshe Shelley 189 

To Thomas Moore. Lord Byron 190 

Bonny Dundee. Sir Walter Scott. The Doom of De- 

vorgoil 191 

The Burial March of Dundee. William Edmond- 

stoune Aytoun 192 

Past and Present. Thomas Hood .... 198 

The Lost Leader. Robert Browning .... 200 

Home-Thoughts, from the Sea. Robert Browning 201 

Old Ironsides. Oliver Wendell Holmes . . . 202 
The Wreck of the Hesperus. Henry Wadsworth 

Longfellow 203 

The Skeleton in Armor. Henry Wadsworth Long- 
fellow 206 

The Armada: A Fragment. Lord Macaulay . . 212 
Sir Nicholas at Marston Moor. Winthrop Mack- 
worth Praed 217 

The Execution of Montrose. William Edmondstoune 

Aytoun 22C 



CONTENTS. XI 

PAGB 

The Dream of Argyle. EUznheth H. Whittier . 227 
Boot and Saddle. Robert Brownin^^ .... 229 
The Norm ax Baron. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 230 
The Warden of the Cinque Ports. Henry Wads- 
worth Longfellow . 233 

How they brought the Good News from Ghent 

to Arx. Robert Broicning ..... 235 
The Belfry of Bruges. Henry Wadsworth T^ong- 

fellow 237 

HoRATius. Lord Macaulay 240 

Burial of the Minnisink. Henry Wadsworth Long- 
fellow ......... 255 

The Pilgrim's Vision. Oliver Wendell Holmes . . 256 

Paul Revere's Ride. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 261 

Lexington. Oliver Wendell Holmes .... 265 

Grandmother's Story of Bunker Hill Battle. 

Oliver Wendell Holmes 267 

Hymn of the Moravian Nuns of Bethleheini. Henry 

Wadsworth Longfellow 277 

Incident of the French Camp. Robert Browning 278 
The Charge of the Light Brigade. Alfred Ten- 

' nyson 280 

Victor Galbkaith. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 282 

The Soldier from Bingen. Caroline E. S. Norton 284 

1^ The Old Clock on the Stairs. Henry Wadsworth 

Longfellow 288 
The Deacon's Masterpiece; or, The Wonderful 

^ " One-Hoss Shay." Oliver Wendell Holmes . . 290 
Valentine : To the Hon. Mary C. Stanhope. Lord 

Macaulay . 294 

Auf Wiedersehen ! James Russell Lowell . . . 296 
Dorothy Q. : A Family Portrait. Oliver Wendell 

Holmes 297 

What Mr. Robinson Thinks. James Russell Lowell 300 
The Ballad of the Oysterman. Oliver Wendell 

Holmes 302 

Thk Spectre Pig: A Ballad. Oliver Wendell Holmes 30-1 

A Rhymed Lesson. Oliver Wendell Holmes . . 308 
The Rose upon my Balcony. William Makepeace 

Thackeray. Vanity Fair 310 



^ xii CONTENTS. 

j PAGE 

\ Green Fields of England. Arthur EugJi dough . 311 

i The Death of the Flowers. William Cullen Bryant 312 

! The Raven. Edgar Allan Poe 314 

In School-Days. John Greenleaf Whittitr . . 320 

I Aladdin. James Russell Lowell 322 

The Couktin'. James Russell Lowell .... 323 

Nuremberg. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow . . 326 
The High Tide «>n the Coast of Lincolnshire. Jean 

Ingelow 330 

Qua Cursum Yentus. Arthur Hugh Clough . . 336 
The Fiftieth Birthday of Agassiz. Henry Wads- 
worth Longfellow 337 

New Year's Eve. Alfred Tennyson. In Memoriam 339 

I Break, Break. Alfred Tennyson 340 

3 A Psalm of Life. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow . 341 
t The Ship. Arthur Hugh Clough . . . . .342 
I Sir Galahad. Alfred Tennyson .... 343 
\ The Happiest Land. Henry Wadsworth I^ongfellow . 346 
St. Agnes' Eve Alfred Tennyson . . ' . . 347 
The Ropewalk. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow . . 348 
The Forced Recruit. Elizabeth Barrett Browning 351 
The Cumberland. Henry Wadsworth J^ongfellow . 353 
Jonathan to John. James Russell Lowell . . 355 
Barbara Frietchie. John Greenleaf Whittier . . 359 
The Old Sergeant. Forceythe Willson . . . 362 
The Arsenal at Springfield. Henry Wadsworth Long- 
fellow 369 

Before Sedan. Austin Dohson 371 

An Envoy to an American Lady. Lord Houghton . 372 

The End of the Play. William Makepeace Thackeray 373 
Say not the Struggle Nought Availeth. Arthur 

Hugh Clough 376 



BALLADS AIvTD LTEIOS, 



CHEVY CHASE.i 

God prosper long our noble King, 

Our lives and safeties all! 
A woeful hunting once there did 

In Chevy Chase befall. 

To drive the deer with hound and horn 
, Earl Percy took the way: 

I The child may rue that is unborn \ 

\ The hunting of that day ! ! 

^ The stout Earl of Northumberland 

I ♦ A vow to God did make, 

: His pleasure in the Scottish woods 

i Three summer's days to take; 

i The chiefest harts in Chevy Chase 

\ To kill and bear away. 

\ i This famous ballad was wi'itten probably during the fif- 

\ Leenth century. It may refer to the battle of Pepperden, fought 

I ,n 1436, between the Earl of Northumberland and the Earl 

I Douglas of Angus, but this is uncertain. The Percies and the 

j Douglas family were always coming in conflict, and this ballad 

% is the great epic of the continual warfare which was waged for 

I centuries on the English and Scottish border. The version given 

I here is from Bishop Percy's Folio MSS., vol. ii., p. 7. 



\ 



revasnar-Mi^^im' *»r»*,^«-«i«»»^-**iw;c.- 



14 BALLADS AXD LYRICS. 

These tidings to Earl Doudas came 



o 

In Scotland where he lay 



Who sent Earl Percy present word 
He would prevent his sport. 

The English Earl, not fearing that, 
Did to the woods resort 

With fifteen hundred bowmen bold, 

All chosen men of might, 
Who knew full well in time of need 
' To aim their shafts ariorht. 

The gallant grey hound swiftly ran 
To chase the fallow deer ; 

On Monday thev beo-an to hunt 
Ere day-light did appear; 

And long before high noon they had 
An hundred fat bucks slain. 

Then having dined, the drovers went 
To rouse the deer again. 

The hounds ran swiftly through the woods 
The nimble deer to take, 

And with their cries the hills and dales 
An echo shrill did make. 

Lord Percy to the Quarry went 
To view the tender deer; 

Quoth he, " Earl Douglas promised once 
This day to meet me here; 

*< But if I thought he would not come, 
No longer would I stav." 



CHEVY CHASE. 15 

With that a brave young gentleman 
Thus to the Earl did say, 

*' Lo, yonder doth Earl Douglas come, 
His men in armor bright, 
Full twenty hundred Scottish spears 
All marching in our sight, 

*' All pleasant men of Teviotdale 

Fast by the river Tweed." 
** O cease your sports ! " Earl Percy said, 

*' And take your bows with speed, 

" And now with me, my countrymen, 
Your courage forth advance ! 
For there was never champion yet 
In Scotland nor in France 

" That ever did on horseback come. 
But if my hap it were, 
I durst encounter man for man. 
With him to break a spear." 

Earl Douglas on his milk-white steed, 

Most like a Baron bold. 
Bode foremost of his company. 

Whose armor shone like gold : 

** Show me," said he, *' whose men you be 
That hunt so boldly here. 
And, without my consent, do chase 
And kill my fallow deer.'* 

The first man that did answer make 
Was noble Percy he. 



16 BALLADS AXD LYRICS. 

Who said, " We list not to declare, 
Nor show whose men we be, 

** Yet we will spend our dearest blood 

Thv chief est harts to slav." 

•■ »■ 

Then Douglas swore a solemn oath, 
And thus in rage did say, 

'' Ere thus I will out-braved be. 
One of us two shall die! 
I know thee well ! An Earl thou art, 
Lord Percy! So am I; 

'* But trust me, Percy, pity 'twere, 

And great offence, to kill 

Any of these our guiltless men, 

For they have done no ill ; 

** Let thou and I the battle try. 

And set our men aside." 
** Accursed be he! " Earl Percy said, 

*' By whom it is denied." 

Then stepped a gallant Squire forth, — 
Witherington was his name, — 

Who said, -'I would not have it told 
To Henry our King, for shame, 

** That e'er my captain fought on foot, 
And I stand lookincr on: 
You be two Earls," quoth Witherington, 
** And I a Squire alone. 

** I '11 do the best that do I may. 
While I have power to stand! 



CHEVY CHASE. W 

While I have power to wield my sword, 
I '11 fight with heart and hand ! ' ' 

Our English archers bent their bows — 
Their hearts were good and true, — 

At the first flight of arrows sent, 
Full four score Scots they slew. 

To drive the deer with hound and horn, 

Douglas bade on the bent; 
Two Captains moved with mickle might, 

Their spears to shivers went. 

They closed full fast on every side, 

No slackness there was found, 
But many a gallant gentleman 

Lay gasping on the ground. 

O Christ ! it was great grief to see 

How each man chose his spear, 
And how the blood out of their breasts 

Did gush like water clear! 

At last these two stout Earls did meet 

Like Captains of great might ; 
Like lions' moods they laid on load, 

They made a cruel fight. 

They fought until they both did sweat, 

With swords of tempered steel. 
Till blood adown their cheeks like rain 

They trickling down did feel. 

O yield thee, Percy! " Douglas said, 
" And in faith I will thee bring 



18 BALLADS AND LYRICS, 

Where thou shalt high advanced be 
By James, our Scottish King ; 

" Thy ransom I will freely give, 

And this report of thee, 
Thou art the most courag-eous Knio;ht 
That ever I did see." 

*' Xo, Douglas! " quoth Earl Percy then , 
'* Thy proffer I do scorn ; 
I will not yield to any Scot 
That ever yet was born! " 

With that there came an arrow keen 

Out of an English bow, 
AVhich struck Earl Douglas on the breast 
A deep and deadly blow ; 

Who never said more words than these, 
" Fight on, my merry men all* 

For why, my life is at an end, 
Lord Percy sees my fall." 

Then leaving life, Earl Percy took 
The dead man by the hand; 

And said, " Earl Douglas! for thy sake 
Would I had lost my land! 

*' O Christ! my very heart doth bleed 
W^ith sorrow for thy sake ! 
For sure, a more renowned Kniorht 
Mischance could never take! " 

A Kniorht amongrst the Scots there was, 
Who saw Earl Douglas die, 



CHEVY CHASE. 19 

And straight in heart did vow revenge 
Upon the Lord Percy. 

Sir Hugh Montgomery was he called, 

Who, with a spear full bright, 
Well mounted on a gallant steed, 

Kan fiercely through the fight, 

And past the English archers all 

With naught of dread or fear, 
And through Earl Percy's body then 

He thrust his hateful spear 

With such a vehement force and migcht 

That his body he did gore. 
The staff ran through the other side 

A large cloth yard and more. 

So thus did both those Nobles die, 
Whose courage none could stain. 

An English archer then perceived 
The noble Earl was slain. 

He had a good bow in his hand 

Made of a trusty tree ; 
An arrow of a cloth yard long 

To the hard head haled he. 

Against Sir Hugh Montgomery 

His shaft full rig-ht he set : 
The grey goose wing that was thereon 

In his heart's blood was wet. 

This fight from break of day did last 
Till settinof of the sun, 



20 BALLADS AND LYRICS. 

For wlien they rung the Evening bell 
The Battle scarce was done. 

With stout Earl Percy there was slain 

Sir John of Egerton, 
Sir Eobert Harcliffe and Sir WilHam, 

Sir James that bold baron ; 

And with Sir George and with Sir James, 
Both Knights of good account; 

And good Sir Ralph Rabby there was slain 
Whose prowess did surmount. 

For Witherington needs must I wail 

As one in doleful dumps, 
For when his legs were smitten off, 

He fought upon his stumps. 

And with Earl Douolas there was slain 

Sir Hugh Montgomery, 
And Sir Charles Murray that from field 

One foot would never flee ; 

Sir Roger Hever of Harcliffe, too, — 

His sister's son was he, — 
Sir David Lamb so well esteemed. 

But saved he could not be ; 

And the Lord Maxwell in like case 

With Douglas he did die ; 
Of twenty hundred Scottish spears, 

Scarce fifty-five did fly ; 

Of fifteen hundred Encrlishmen 
Went home but fifty-three ; 



CHEVY CHASE. 21 

The rest in Chevy Chase were slain, 
Under the greenwood tree. 

Next day did many widows come 

Their husbands to bewail; 
They washed their wounds in brinish tears, 

But all would not prevail. 

Their bodies, bathed in purple blood. 

They bore with them away, 
They kissed them dead a thousand times 

Ere they were clad in clay. 

The news was brouo^ht to Edinborouojh 
Where Scotland's king did reign, 

That brave Earl Douglas suddenly 
Was with an arrow slain. 

** O heavy news! '' King James can say, 
" Scotland may witness be 
I have not any Captain more 
Of such account as he! " 

Like tidings to King Henry came 

Within as short a space, 
That Percy of Northumberland 

Was slain in Chevy Chase. 

*' Now God be with him ! " said our king, 
" Sith it will no better be, 
I trust I have within my realm 
Five hundred as good as he ! 

** Yet, shall not Scots nor Scotland say 
But I will vengeance take. 



22 BALLADS AND LYRICS. 

And be revenged on them all 
For brave Earl Percy's sake." 

This vow the king did well perform 

After, on Humble down; 
In one day fifty knights were slain, 

With lords of great renown. 

And of the rest, of small account, 

Did many hundreds die: 
Thus endeth the hunting in Chevy Chase 

Made by the Earl Percy. 

God save our King, and bless this land 
With plenty, joy, and peace; 

And grant henceforth that foul debate 
'Twixt noble men may cease! 

Anonymous. 

Old Ballad, 



SIR PATRICK SPENS.i 

The king sits in Dunfermline town, 
Drinking the blude-red wine: 
'* O where will I get a skeely skipper 
To sail this new ship of mine? " 

1 This is an old Scotch ballad of great antiquity. There is no 
historical incident which corresponds exactly to that narrated in 
the ballad, but the story belongs to the period of Alexander the 
Third, of Scotland, who died in 1285, and whose daughter mar- 
ried Eric, King of Norway. The daughter of Eric by this mar- 
riage, who was named Margaret and called the maid of Norway, 
became the heiress of the Scottish crown, and an effort was 



SIR PATRICK SPENS. 23 

O up and spake an eldern knight, 
Sat at the kino;'s rio;ht knee : 
** Su* Patrick Spens is the best sailor 
That ever sailed the sea." 

Our king has written a braid letter, 

And sealed it with his hand, 
And sent it to Sir Patrick Spens, 

Was walking on the strand. 

" To Noroway, to Noroway, 
To Noroway o'er the faem; 
The king's daughter of Noroway, 
'Tis thou maun bring her hame! " 

The first word that Sir Patrick read, 

Sae loud, loud laughed he, 
The neist word that Sir Patrick read, 

The tear blindit his e'e. 

*' wha is this has done this deed. 
And tauld the king o' me. 
To send us out at this time of the year. 
To sail upon the sea? 

'* Be it wind, be it weet, be it hail, be it sleet. 
Our ship must sail the faem; 
The king's daughter of Noroway, 
'T is we must fetch her hame." 

made to marry her to Edward, son of Edward I. of England; bu' 
she died before her return to Scotland. She is the princess re- 
ferred to in the ballad, and for whom Sir Patrick Spens was 
sent, according to the tradition. The version given here is 
taken from Sir Walter Scott's Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border, 
vol. i., p. 3. 



24 BALLADS AND LYRICS. 

They hoysed their sails on Monenday morn 

Wi' a' the speed they may; 
They hae landed in Noroway 

Upon a Wodensday. 

They hadna been a week, a week 

In Noroway, but twae, 
When that the lords o' Noroway 

Began aloud to say: 

" Ye Scottishmen spend a' our king's gowd 

And a' our queene's fee." 
** Ye lie, ye lie, ye liars loud! 

Fu' loud I hear ye lie ! 

** For I hae brought as much white monie 
As gane my men and me, 
And I brought a half-fou o' gude red gowd 
Out oure the sea wi' me. 

*' Make ready, make ready, my merry men aM 

Our gude ship sails the morn." 
** Now, ever alake! my master dear, 

I fear a deadly storm ! 

** I saw the new moon, late yestreen, 
Wi' the auld moon in her arm; 
And if we gang to sea, master, 
I fear we '11 come to harm.'* 

They hadna sailed a league, a league, 

A league, but barely three. 
When the lift grew dark, and the wind blew loud. 

And gurly grew the sea. 



SIR PATRICK SPENS. 25 

The ankers brak, and the topmasts lap, 

It was sic a deadly storm ; 
And the waves came o'er the broken ship 

Till a' her sides were torn. 

** O where will I get a gude sailor 
To take my helm in hand, 
Till I get up to the tall topmast, 
To see if I can spy land? " 

*^ O here am I, a sailor gude, 
To take the helm in hand. 
Till you go up to the tall topmast, — 
But I fear you '11 ne'er spy land.'* 

He hadna gane a step, a step, 

A step, but barely ane, 
When a boult- flew out of our goodly ship. 

And the salt sea it came in. 

*' Gae fetch a web o' the silken claith. 
Another o' the twine. 
And wap them into our ship's side 
And let na the sea come in." 

They fetched a web o' the silken claith, 

Another o' the twine, 
And they wapped them roun' that gude ship's side, 

But still the sea came in. 

O laith, laith were our gude Scots lords 

To weet their cork -heeled shoon ! 
But lang or a' the play was played. 

They wat their hats aboon. 



26 BALLADS AND LYRICS, 

And mony was the feather-bed 

That floated on the faem, 
And mony was the gude lord's son 

That never mair cam hame. 

The ladyes wrange their fingers white 
The maidens tore their hair; 

A' for the sake of their true loves, 
For them they '11 see na mair. 

O lang, lang may the ladyes sit, 
Wi' their fans into their hand, 

Before they see Sir Patrick Spens 
Come sailing to the strand! 

And lang, lang may the maidens sit, 
Wi' their gowd kaims in their hair, 

A' waiting^ for their ain dear loves, 
For them they '11 see na man*. 

O forty miles off Aberdeen 
'T is fifty fathoms deep, 
And there lies gude Sir Patrick Spens 
Wi' the Scots lords at his feet. 

Anonymous. 

Old Ballad, 



ARIEL'S SONG. 27 



ARIEL'S SONG. 

Come unto these yellow sands, 

And then take hands : 
Courtsied when you have and kiss'd 

The wild waves whist, 
Foot it f eatly here and there ; 

And, sweet sprites, the burthen bear. 
Burthen : Hark, hark I 

Bow-wow. 
The watch- dogs bark : 

Bow-wow. 
Hark, hark I I hear 
The strain of strutting chanticleer 
Cry, Cock-a-diddle-dow. 

William Shakespeare.^ 

The Tempest, 

1 William Shakespeare. Very little is knoiTii in regard to 
Shakespeare's life. He was the son of John and Mary Shake- 
speare, of Stratford-upon-Avon, where he was born about April 
23, 1564. In his eighteenth year he married Anne Hathaway, of 
Shottery, a neighboring village. His wife was eight years older 
than he, and tradition says that the marriage was an unhappy 
one. About the year 1587 he left Stratford to seek his fortune 
in London as an actor and playwright. In 1589 he became a 
partner in the Blackfriars Theatre. He prospered in London, 
nade money, and secured a competence, purchased property, about 
tiie beginning of the seventeenth century, in Stratford, and soon 
after returned there to live, a rich man for those days. There in 
his native village he died of a violent fever on April 23, 1616, his 
fifty-third birthday, probably, and while still in the prime of life. 
He was buried in the parish church and his tomb remains unal- 
tered. Between his arrival in London and his death at Stratford 
he wrote the marvellous plays, and hardly less marvellous son- 
nets, which prove him to have been the greatest writer of any 
age, nation, or language. The poems in this collection are all 
taken from the plays in which they occur. 



28 BALLADS AND LYRICS. 



A SEA DIRGE. 

Full fathom five thy father lies; 

Of his bones are coral made ; 
Those are pearls that were his eyes* 

Nothing of him that doth fade 
But doth suffer a sea changre 
Into somethino: rich and stranore. 
Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell: 
Hark ! now I hear them, — Ding-dong, bell. 
William Shakespeare. 

The Tempest. 



ARIEL'S SONG. 



Where the bee sucks there suck I: 
In a cowslip's bell I lie; 
There I couch when owls do cry. 
On the bat's back I do fly 
After summer merrily. 
Merrily, merrily shall I live now, 
Under the blossom that hang^s on the bouQ^h. 
William Shakespeare. 

The Tempest, 



SONG. 

Pack, clouds, away, and welcome day, 
With night we banish sorrow; 

Sweet air, blow soft; mount, larks, aloft 
To give my Love good-morrow ! 

Wings from the wind to please her mind, 
Notes from the lark, I '11 borrow ; 



SONG. 29 

Bird, prune thy wing, nightingale, sing, 
To give my Love^good-morrow; 
To give my Love good-morrow 
Notes from them both I'll borrow. 

Wake from thy nest, Kobin-red-breast; 

Sing, birds, in every furrow; 
And from each hill let music shrill 

Give my fair Love good-morrow ! 
Blackbird and thrush in every bush, 

Stare, linnet, and cock-sparrow ! 
You pretty elves, amongst yourselves 
Sing my fair Love good-morrow ; 
To give my Love good-morrow 
Sing, birds, in every furrow ! 

Thomas Heywood.^ 



SONG. 

Under the greenwood tree 

Who loves to lie with me, 

And turn his merry note 

Unto the sweet bird's throat, 
Come hither, come hither, come hither: 

Here shall he see 

No enemy 
But winter and rough weather. 

Who doth ambition shun 
And loves to live i' the sun, 

1 Thomas Heywood was an actor and a prolific dramatist 
lad prose writer of tlie Elizabethan school, who flourished iu 
London during the reigns of Elizabeth, James L, and Charles I. 
His fame rests upon his plays, of which he said he had writteb 
ivhoUy or in part no less than two hundred and twenty. 



30 BALLADS AND LYRICS. 

Seekingr the food he eats 
And pleased with, what he gets, 
Come hither, come hither, come hither : 
Here shall he see 
!N^o enemy 
But winter and rough weather. 

W1LJ.1AM Shakespeare. 

As Tou Like It 



CHARACTER OF A HAPPY LIFE. 

How happy is he born and taught 
That serveth not another's will; 
Whose armor is his honest thought 
And simple truth his utmost skill! 

Whose passions not his masters are, 
^^^lose soul is still prepared for death, 
Xot tied unto the world with care 
Of public fame, or private breath; 

"Who envies none that chance doth raise, 
Or vice; who never understood 
How deepest wounds are given by praise ; 
Xor rules of state, but rules of orood: 

Who hath his life from rumors freed, 
Whose conscience is his strong retreat; 
Whose state can neither flatterers feed, 
Kor ruin make accusers great; 

Who God doth late and early pray 
More of his grace than gifts to lend; 
And entertains the harmless day 
With a well-chosen book or friend ; 



WINTER. 31 

This man is freed from servile bands 
Of hope to rise, or fear to fall; 
Lord of himself, though not of lands; 
And, having nothing, yet hath all. 

Sir Henry Wotton.^ 



AVINTER. 

When icicles hang^ bv the wall 

And Dick the shepherd blows his nail 

And Tom bears logs into the hall 

And milk comes frozen home in pail, 

When blood is nippM and ways be foul, 

Then nightly sings the staring owl, 

Tu-whit ; 

Tu-who, a merry note, 

While greasy Joan doth keel the jDot. 

When all aloud the wind dcth blow 

And coughing drowns the parson's saw 

1 Sir Henry Wottox was born at Bougliton Hall, Kent 
(England), in 1568. He was educated at Oxford, where he 
showed a taste for poetry. After graduation he was employed 
in the diplomatic service and passed nine years on the Continent. 
On his return he became secretary to the Earl of Essex, and re- 
tired to Italy when his patron fell from power and was beheaded. 
He again returned to England on the accession of James L, who 
knighted him and employed him on several important foreign 
missions. He was made Provost of Eton College in 1627, and 
retained this office until his death, in 1639. He is best knoAvn as 
a statesman and diplomatist. His prose writings included polit- 
ical essays and memoirs. His poems were composed solely for 
his own amusement, but several of them, like that in the text, 
^ave gi'eat beauty of thou<j;'ht. 



32 BALLADS AND LYRICS. 

And birds sit brooding in the rnow, 

And Marian's nose looks red and raw, 
When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl, 
Then nightly sings the staring owl, 

Tu-whit; 
Tu-who, a merry note, 
While greasy Joan doth keel the pot. 

William Shakespeare. 

Love's Labour 's Lost. 



SONG. 

Tell me where is fancy bred. 

Or in the heart or in the head ? 

How begot, how nourished ? 
Reply, reply. 

It is engender'd in the eyes, 

With gazing fed; and fancy dies 

In the cradle where it lies. 

Let us all ring fancy's knell: 
I '11 begin it, — Dingr-dono-, bell. 

William Shakespeare. 
Merchant of Venice 



FAIRY'S SONG. 

Over hill, over dale, 

Thorough bush, thorough brier, 
Ovt;r park, over pale, 

Thorough flood, thorough fire, 
I do wander everywhere. 
Swifter than the moon's sphere; 



SONG OF THE FAIRIES, 33 

And I serve the fairy queen, 
To dew her orbs upon the green. 
The cowslips tall her pensioners be : 
In their gold coats spots you see ; 
Those be rubies, fairy favors. 
In those freckles live their savors: 
I must go seek some dewdrops here 
And hang a pearl in every cowslip's ear. 
Farewell, thou lob of spirits; I '11 be gone: 
Our queen and all our elves come here anon. 
William Shakespeare. 
Midsummer NighVs Dream. 



SONG OF THE FAIRIES. 

You spotted snakes with double tongue, 

Thorny hedgehogs, be not seen ; 
Newts and blind-worms, do no wrono-. 

Come not near our fairy queen. 

Philomel, with melody 

Sing in our sweet lullaby : 
Lulla, lulla, lullaby, lulla, lulla, lullaby : 
Never harm, 
Nor spell nor charm, 

Come our lovely lady nigh ; 

So good-night, with lullaby. 

Weaving spiders, come not here ; 

Hence, you long-legg'd spinners, hence! 
Beetles black, approach not near; 
Worm nor snail, do no offence. 
Philomel, with melody, etc. 

William Shakespeare. 

Midsummer NighVs Dream, 
3 



34 BALLADS AXD LYRLCS, 



PUCK'S SOXG. 

Xow the hungrv- lion roars, 

And the wolf bebowls the moon ; 
Whilst the hear}' ploughman snores. 

All with weary task fordone- 
Xow the wasted brands do glow, 

Wliilst the screech-owl, screeching loud, 
Puts the wretch, that lies in woe 

In remembrance of a shroud. 
Now it is the time of night 

That the graves all gaping wide, 
Every one lets forth his sprite 

In the church-way paths to glide: 
And we fairies, that do run 

By the triple Hecate's team, 
From the presence of the sun. 

Following darkness like a dream, 
Xow are frolic: not a mouse 
Shall disturb this hallow 'd house: 
I am sent with broom before. 
To sweep the dust behind the door. 

William Shakespeare. 
Midsummer NighVs Dream. 



SONG. 

Habk, hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings, 

And Phoebus 'gins arise. 
His steeds to water at those springs 

On chalieed flowers that lies ; 
And winking Mary- buds begin 



SONG. 35 

To ope their golden eyes : 
With everything that pretty is, 
My lady sweet, arise; 
Arise, arise. 

W1LL14M Shakespeare. 

Cymbeline. 



SONG. 

Blow, blow, thou winter wind, 
Thou art not so unkind 

As man's ingratitude ; 
Thy tooth is not so keen, 
Because thou art not seen, 

Although thy breath be rude. 
Heigh-ho! sing, heigh-ho! unto the green holly: 
Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly: 
Then, heigh-ho, the holly! 

This life is most jolly. 

Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky, 
That dost not bite so nigh 

As benefits forgot : 
Though thou the waters warp, 
Thy sting is not so sharp 

As friend remember' d not. 
Heigh-ho! sing, heigh-ho! unto the green holly: 
Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly ' 
Then, heigh-ho, the holly! 
This life is most jolly. 

William Shakespeare. 

As You LiTce It. 



36 BALLADS AND LYRICS. 



SONG. 

Fear no more the heat o' the sun, 
Nor the furious winter's rages ; 

Thou thy worldly task hast done, 

Home art gone, and ta'en thy wages : 

Golden lads and girls all must, 

As chimney-sweepers, come to dust. 

Fear no more the frown o' the great ; 

Thou art past the tyrant's stroke ; 
Care no more to clothe and eat ; 

To thee, the reed is as the oak : 
The sceptre, learning, physic, must 
All follow this, and come to dust. 

Fear no more the lio-htninor-flash, 
Nor the all-dreaded thunder- stone ; 

Fear not slander, censure rash ; 
Thou hast finish'd joy and moan : 

All lovers young, all lovers must 

Consign to thee, and come to dust. 

No exorciser harm thee! 
Nor no witchcraft charm thee ! 
Ghost unlaid forbear thee I 
Nothing ill come near thee ! 
Quiet consummation have! 
And renowned be thy grave ! 

William SnAKEsrEARE. 

Cymbeline, 



«iMa mmmammmm^mmmmmmmmmmm3mimismmmm:VBm^?v9^asasm 




THE NOBLE NATURE 



SONG. 

How should I your true love know 

From another one ? 
By Ills cockle hat and staff, 

And his sandal shoon. 

He is dead and gone, lady, 

He is dead and gone ; 
At his head a grass-o-reen turf, 

At his heels a stone. 

White his shroud as the mountain snow 

Larded with sweet flowers ; 
AA^hich bewept to the grave did go I 

With true-love showers. 

William Shakespeare. 

Hamlet. 



THE NOBLE NATURE. 

It is not o-rowina; like a tree 
In bulk, doth make man better be ; 
Or standing long an oak, three hundred year, 
To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sere : 
A lily of a day 
Is fairer far in May, 
Althouo;h it fall and die that niolit — 
It was the plant and flower of Light. 
In small proportions we just beauties see ; 
And in short measures life may perfect be. 

Ben Jonson.^ 

I Ben Jonson was bora in Westminster in 1573. His family 



38 BALLADS AND LYRICS. 



VIRTUE. 

Sweet Day, so cool, so calm, so bright, 
The bridal of the earth and sky, 
The dew shall weep thy fall to-night ; 

For thou must die. 

Sweet Rose, whose hue angry and brave 
Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye, 
Thy root is ever in its grave, 

And thou must die. 

Sweet Spring, full of sweet days and roses, 
A box where sweets compacted lie, 
Mv music shows ve have vour closes, 

And all must die. 

was of humble condition and he appears to have been taught the 
trade of a bricklayer. He received his education at TTestminster 
•School, and then went to Cambridge. He did not remain at the 
university, however, more than a month, but turned soldier in his 
sixteenth year and served in the wars in the Low Countries, where 
he gained distinction by his bravery. When he was nineteen 
he returned to England, married, and became an actor, ami 
then a playwright. He was a friend of Shakespeare, and next 
to him, thoiicch at long distance, the most famous of the brilliant 
school of Elizabethan dramatists. In 1616 he was made poet- 
laureate of England, and died in 1637. He wrote many plays, 
of which the best and most famous are liis early comedies. He 
was a witty, agreeable man, hot-tempered and quarrelsome, and 
always in conflict with his literary brethren. He was also a free 
liver, jovial and extravagant, and given to a profuse hospitality, 
so that despite his position as poet-laureate, and the success of 
his plays, he was always in money difficulties, and died in ex- 
treme poverty. Besides liis plays, he wrote many short poems 
of great beauty of thought, language, and expression, of which 
the one given in this collection is an admirable example. 



TO BLOSSOMS, 



39 



Only a sweet and virtuous soul, 
Like season'd timber, never gives ; 
But, though the whole world turn to coal. 
Then chiefly lives. 
George Herbert.^ 



TO BLOSSOMS. 

Fair pledges of a fruitful tree, 
Why do ye fall so fast ? 
Your date is not so past, 

But you may stay yet here a while, 
To blush and gently smile; 
And 0^0 at last. 

What, were ye born to be 

An hour or half's delight; 
And so to bid o^ood-nigrlit ? 

'T was pity Nature brought ye forth 
Merely to show your worth, 

And' lose you quite. 



But you are lovely leaves, where we 
Mav read how soon thino-s have 
Their end, though ne'er so brave: 

^ George Herbert was a descendant of the Earls of Pem- 
broke and younger brother of the famous Lord Herbert of Cher- 
bury. He was born at Montgomery Castle in Wales, in 1593, 
and was educated at Westminster School and at Trinity College, 
Cambridge. After graduation he took holy orders, became a 
minister of the Established Church and prebendary of Layton. 
In 1630 he was presented by King Charles I. to the living of 
Bemerton, and died while still a young man, in 1G32. He wrote 
a great deal, both prose and verse, but always on religious and 
moral subjects, and was a man of gentle and devout nature and 
Dure life. 



40 BALLADS AND LYRICS. 

And after they have shown their pride, 
Like you, a while, they glide 
Into the grave. 

Robert Herrick.^ 



TO LUCASTA, ON GOING TO THE WARS 

Tell me not, Sweet, I am unkind, 

That from the nunnery 
Of thy chaste breast and quiet mind, 

To war and arms I fly. 

True, a new mistress now I chase, 

The first foe in the field ; 
And with a stronger faith embrace 

A sword, a horse, a shield. 

Yet this inconstancy is such 

As you too shall adore; 
I could not love thee, Dear, so much. 

Loved I not Honor more. 

Richard Lovelace. ^ 

1 Robert Herrick was born in London in 1591. He was a 
student at Cambridge, took orders, and was presented by Charles 

I. to the living of Dean Prior in Devonshire in 1629. He was 
deprived of his living by Cromwell in 1648. He then returned 
to London and lived in retirement, believing his connection with 
the church to be wholly severed, but on the restoration of Charles 

II. in 1660 he was reinstated in his living, which he held imtil 
his death, about the year 1674. He was eminent both, as a divine 
and as a poet. His poems are chiefly secular and many very 
light, but it is as the author of them that he is chiefly remem- 
bered, although lie wrote some verses on sacred subjects. Almost 
all his poems are very short, but they are very perfect and 
highly finished and many are among the very best of their kind. 

2 Richard Lovelace, the son of Sir William Lovelace, of 



TO DAFFODILS. 41 



TO DAFFODILS. 

Fair daffodils, we weep to see 

You haste away so soon: 
As yet the early-rising sun 

Has not attained his noon. 
Stay, stay, 

Until the hasting day 
Has run 

But to the even-song ; 
And, having prayed together, we 

Will go with you along. 

We have short time to stay, as you, 

We have as short a spring; 
As quick a growth to meet decay, 
As you, or any thing. 
We die. 
As your hours do, and dry 

Away, 
Like to the summer's rain ; 
Or as the pearls of morning's dew, 
Ne'er to be found aorain. 

Egbert Herrick. 

Woolwich, Kent, was born in 1618. He came of age just at 
the outbreak of the civil war between king and Parliament. 
He at once embraced the royal cause, and after its defeat took 
service with the king of France and commanded a regiment 
when he was wounded at Dunkirk. He returned to England 
only to be thrown into prison, and after his release lingered in 
London in ob-curity and poverty, and died there in 1658, a vic- 
tim to the political troubles of the time. He was a handsome, 
gallant cavalier, and a good soldier as well as a poet. Most of 
nis poems have little merit, but there are one or two besides that 
^iven here which have preserved his name from oblivion. 



42 BALLADS AND LYRICS. 



GO, LOVELY ROSE. 

Go, lovely Rose! 
Tell her, that wastes her tirae and me, 

That now she knows. 
When I resemble her to thee, 
How sweet and £air she seems to be. 



Tell her that 's voungr 
And shuns to have her graces spied, 

That hadst thou sprung 
In deserts, where no men abide, 
Thou must have uncommended died. 

Small is the worth 
Of beauty from the light retired: 

Bid her come forth, 
Suffer herself to be desired. 
And not blush so to be admired. 

Then die! that she 
The common fate of all thinors rare 

May read in thee: 
How small a part of time they share 
That are so wondrous sweet and fair! 

Edmund Waller.^ 

1 Edmund Waller was born in 1605. He was of good fam- 
ily, a connoction of both John Hampden and Oliver Cromwell, 
nnd was a man of property. He was educated at Eton and Cam- 
bridge, entered Parliament in 1621, and. with occasional inter- 
vals, continued there through life, being elected the last time in 
1685, as member for Saltash in the only Parliament of James 
II. In 1643 he was discovered in a plot against the Long Par- 
liament, made abject submission, was fined £10,000, and forced 
into exile. He returned in 1653, and made terms with Crom- 




Go, lovely Rose." See p. 42. 



. I 



'TLL NEVER LOVE THEE MORE:' 43 

"I'LL NEVER LOVE THEE MORE/' 
I. 

My dear and only love, I pray- 
That little world of thee 

Be governed by no other sway 
Than purest monarchy; 

For if confusion have a part, 
Which virtuous souls abhor, 

And hold a synod in thine heart, 
I '11 never love thee more. 

II. 

As Alexander I will reign. 

And I will reign alone ; 
My thoughts did evermore disdain 

A rival on my throne. 
He either fears his fate too much, 

Or his deserts are small, 
That dares not put it to the touch, 

To gain or lose it all. 

III. 

But I will reign and govern still, 

And always give the law. 
And have each subject at my will, 

And all to stand in awe; 
But 'gainst my batteries if I find 

Thou kick, or vex me sore. 
As that thou set me up a blind, 

I '11 never love thee more. 

well, by whom he was protected. On the Restoration he again 
changed sides, and made his peace with Charles II., during 
whose reign he continued to flourish. He died in 1G87. As a 
politician he was sharp, mean, and time-serving; as a poet, 
graceful and witty. He wrote much, both prose and verse. 



44 BALLADS ASD LYRICS. 

IV. 

And in the empire of tliine heart, 

Where I should solely be, 
If others do pretend a part, 

Or dare to vie with nie, 
Or if committees thou erect, 

And go on such a score, 
I '11 laugh and sing at thy neglect. 

And never lo7e thee more. 

V. 

But if thou wilt prove faithful, then, 

And constant of thy word, 
I '11 make thee glorious by my pen, 

And famous by my sword ; 
I 41 serve thee in such noble ways 

Was never heard before ; 
I '11 crown and deck thee all with bays, 

And love thee more and more. 

Marquis of Montrose.^ 



L'ALLEGRO. 



Hence, loathed Melancholy, 

Of Cerberus and blackest IMidni^fht born, 
In Stygian cave forlorn, 

1 James Graha3£e, Marqais of Montrose, was bom at Edin- 
burgh in 1612. He took up arms for the king in the civil wars, 
and was made commander-in-chief of the Scottish forces by 
Charles I. in 16tW. After a campaign of great brilliancy he 
was finally defeated by the Covenanters under Leslie at Philip- 
haugh, in 1645. He fled to the Continent, but soon returned to 
Scotland and again took arms. He was defeated, taken prisoner, 
and executed at Edinburgh in May, 1650. He was the most re- 
rnarkable and the most successful of the Cavalier generals. 



UALLEGRO, 45 

'Mongst horrid shapes, and shrieks, and sights un- 
holy ! 
Find out some uncouth cell 

Where brooding Darkness spreads his jealous wings 
And the night-raven sings; 

There under ebon shades, and low-brow^d rocks 
As ragged as thy locks, 

In dark Cimmerian desert ever dwell. 

But come, thou Goddess fair and free, 

In heaven yclep'd Euphrosyne, 

And by men, heart-easing Mirth, 

Whom lovely Yenus at a birth 

With two sister Graces more 

To ivy-crownbd Bacchus bore: 

Or whether (as some sager sing) 

The frolic wind that breathes the spring, 

Zephyr, with Aurora playing, 

As he met her once a-Maying, 

There on beds of violets blue 

And fresh-blown roses wash'd in dew 

Fill'd her with thee, a daughter fair, 

So buxom, blithe, and debonair. 

Haste thee. Nymph, and bring with thee 

Jest, and youthful jollity, 

Quips, and cranks, and wanton wiles. 

Nods, and becks, and wreathed smiles 

Such as hano; on Hebe's cheek 

And love to live in dimple sleek ; 

Sport that wrinkled Care derides, 

And Lauorhter holdins; both his sides, — 

Come, and trip it as you go 

On the light fantastic toe ; 

And in thy right hand lead with thee 



1:6 BALLADS AXD LYRICS. 

The mountain-nympb, sweet Liberty; 
And if I give thee honor due, 
Mirth, admit me of thy crew, 
To live with her. and live with thee, 
In unreproved pleasures fi'^e: 
To hear the lark begin his flight 
And singing startle the dull night 
From his watch-tower in the skies 
Till the dappled dawn doth rise ; 
Then to come, in spite of sorrow, 
And at my window bid goo<l -morrow 
Thi*ough the sweet-briar, or the vine. 
Or the twisted esrlantine : 
While the cock with lively din 
Scatters the rear of darkness thin, 
And to the stack, or the barn-door, 
Stoutly struts his dames before: 
Oft listeninor how the hounds and horn 
Cheerly rouse the slumbering morn, 
From the side of some hoar hill, 
Throucfh the hi^h wood echoing: shrill. 
Sometime walking, not unseen, 
Bv hedsre-row elms, on hillocks sn-een. 
Right against the eastern gate 
Where the great Sun begins his state 
Robed in flames and amber light, 
The clouds in thousand liveries dight; 
While the ploughman, near at hand, 
Whistles o'er the furrow'd land, 
And the milkmaid singeth blithe, 
And the mower whets his scythe. 
And every shepherd tells his tale 
Under the hawthorn in the dale. 

Straight mine eye hath caught new pleasures 
Whilst the landscape round it measures; 



UALLEGRO, 47 

Russet lawns, and fallows gray, 
Where the nibbling flocks do stray; 
IVIountains on whose barren breast 
The laborinor clouds do often rest: 
Meadows trim with daisies pied. 
Shallow brooks, and rivers wide; 
Towers and battlements it sees 
Bosom'd hiojh in tufted trees, 
Where perhaps some Beauty lies, 
The cynosure of neighboring eyes. 
Hard by, a cottage chimney smokes 
From betwixt two aged oaks, 
Where Corydon and Thyrsis, met, 
Are at their savory dinner set 
Of herbs and other country messes 
Which the neat-handed Phillis dresses; 
And then in haste her bower she leaves 
With Thestylis to bind the sheaves ; 
Or, if the earlier season lead. 
To the tann'd haycock in the mead. 

Sometimes with secure delio;ht 
The upland hamlets will invite. 
When the merry bells ring round, 
And the jocund rebecks sound 
To many a youth and many a maid. 
Dancing in the chequer'd shade; 
And young and old come forth to play 
On a sun-shine holy-day. 
Till the live-lono; davlicrht fail ; 
Then to the spicy nut-brown ale. 
With stories told of many a feat, 
How faery Mab the junkets eat ; 
She was pinch'd and pull'd, she said ,' 
And he, by friar's lantern led. 
Tells how the drudoins^ Goblin sweat 



18 BALLADS AND LYRLCS. 

To earn bis cream-bowl duly set, 
Wben in one nigbt, ere glimpse of morn, 
His sbadowy flail bath tbresli'd tbe corn 
That ten day-laborers could not end; 
Then lies bim down the lubber fiend. 
And, stretcb'd out all the chimney's length, 
Basks at tbe fire bis hairy strength; 
And crop-full out of doors he flings, 
Ere the first cock bis matin rincrs. 

Thus done the tales, to bed they creep, 
By whispering winds soon lull'd asleep. 

Tower'd cities please us then, 
And the busy hum of men, 
Where thrones of kniobts and barons bold 
In weeds of peace high triumphs hold. 
With store of ladies, whose bright eyes 
Rain influence, and judge the prize 
Of wit or arms, wbile both contend 
To win her grace, whom all commend. 
There let Hymen oft appear 
In saflron I'obe, with taper clear. 
And pomp, and feast, and revelry; 
With mask, and antique pa^reantry; 
Such sicrhts as youthful poets dream 
On summer eves by haunted stream. 
Then to the well-trod sta2:e anon. 
If Jonson's learned sock be on. 
Or sweetest Shakespeare, Fancy's child, 
Warble his native wood-notes wild. 

And ever against eating cares 
Lap me in soft Lydian airs 
Married to immortal verse, 
Such as the meeting soul may pierce 
In notes, with many a windingr bout 
Of linked sweetness long drawn out, 



U ALLEGRO. 49 

With wanton lieed and giddy cunning, 

The meltino; voice throuo-h mazes runningr, 

Untwisting; all the chains that tie 

The hidden soul of harmony, 

That Orpheus' self may heave his head 

From golden slumber on a bed 

Of lieap'd Elysian flowers, and hear 

Such strains as would have won the ear 

Of Pluto, to have quite set free 

His half-regained Eurydice. 

These deliohts if thou canst oive, 
Mirth, with thee I mean to live. 

John Milton. ^ 

1 John Milton, the son of a scrivener of the same name, wa* 
born in London, in Bread Street, December 9, 1608. He was edii 
cated by Dr. Young, a famous Puritan divine, then at St. Paul'c 
School, and finally at Christ's College, where he first wrote verse: 
in Latin and English. After a brief stay at his father's, when 
were written some of his more famous short poems, including tht- 
two given here, he travelled in Italy, where he met Galileo. In 
1639 he returned to England and soon drifted into the great 
struggle between king and Parliament then just beginning. He 
soon won the foremost place as a writer on political and religious 
questions, and in 1649 was made Latin Secretary of the Common- 
wealth, a post which he continued to hold under Cromwell. He 
was the chief defender, with the pen, of the Commonwealth and 
the Protector. About 1653 he became totally blind, owing to in- 
cessant work, made necessary by his continual controversies. At 
the Restoration his life was spared, but he was obliged to live in 
obscurity. It was at this period that he returned to poetry and 
wrote Paradise Lost and Paradise Regained^ the greatest epic 
poems in the English language, and which have caused him to -J 

be ranked next to Shakespeare among English poets. He Avas a | 

■.nan of profound learning and a wonderful linguist. His prose 
writings were voluminous and chiefly controversial. - The style 
seems heavy and involved, if judged by the standard of tlie pres- 
ent day, but it is nevertheless magnificent, rich, and powerful. 
It is as the great literary genius ot Pnritan England, and as the 
4 ' 



50 BALLADS AND LYRICS. 

IL PENSEROSO. 

Hence, vain deluding joys, 

The brood of Folly without father bred I 
How little you bestead 

Or fill the fixed mind with all your toys ! 
Dwell in some idle brain, 

And fancies fond with gaudy shapes possess 
As thick and numberless 

As the gay motes that people the sunbeams, 
Or likest hovering dreams, 

The fickle pensioners of Morpheus' train. 

But hail, thou goddess sage and holy. 

Hail, divinest Melancholy ! 

Whose saintly visagfe is too bright 

To hit the sense of human sight, 

And therefore to our weaker view 

O'erlaid with black, staid wisdom's hue; 

Black, but such as in esteem 

Prince ^Memnon's sister might beseem. 

Or that Starr' d Ethiop queen that strove 

To set her beauty's praise above 

The sea-nymphs, and their powers offended: 

Yet thou art higher far descended: 

Thee bright-haired Yesta, long of yore, 

To solitary Saturn bore; 

His daughter she: in Saturn's reigrn 

Such mixture was not held a stain : 

Oft in glimmering bowers and glades 

He met her, and in secret shades 

Of woody Ida's inmost grove, 

While yet there was no fear of Jove. 

poet of Puritanism, that Milton is most interesting. He died in 
H"ovember, 1674, at his home in Bimhill Fields. 



IL PENSEROSO. 51 

Come, pensive nun, devout and pure, 
Sober, steadfast, and demure. 
All in a robe of darkest grain I 

Flowing with majestic train, | 

And sable stole of cypres lawn 
Over thy decent shoulders drawn: 
Come, but keep thy wonted state, 
With even step, and musing gait, 
And looks commercing with the skies, 
Thy rapt soul sitting in thine eyes: 
There, held in holy passion still, 
Forget thyself to marble, till 
With a sad leaden downward cast 
Thou fix them on the earth as fast: 
And join with thee calm Peace and Quiet, 
Spare Fast that oft with gods doth diet, 
And hears the Muses in a ring 
Aye round about Jove's altar sing: 
And add to these retired Leisure, 
That in trim gardens takes his pleasure: 
But first, and chiefest, with thee bring 
Him that yon soars on golden wing. 
Guiding the fiery- wheeled throne, 
The cherub Contemplation; 
And the mute Silence hist alongj, 
'Less Philomel will deio;n a song; 
In her sweetest, saddest plight, 
Smoothino; the ruoraed brow of nioht, 
While Cynthia checks her dragon yoke |' 

Gently o'er the accustom'd oak. 
Sweet bird, that shunn st the noise of folly, 
Most musical, most melancholy! 
Thee, chan tress, oft, the woods among, 
I woo, to hear thy even-song; 
And missino; thee, I walk unseen 



Ra9 



:>2 BALLADS AND LYRICS. 

On the dry, smooth- shaven green, 
To behold the wanderincr moon 
Kidingr near her highest noon, 
Like one that had been led astray 
Through the heavens' wide pathless way, 
And oft, as if her head she bow'd, 
Stooping through a fleecy cloud. 

Oft, on a plat of rising ground, 
I hear the far-off curfeu sound 
Over some wide- watered shore, 
Swingrino- slow with sullen roar: 
Or, if the air will not permit, 
Some still removed place will fit, 
Where olowiniT embers throuirh the room 
Teach light to counterfeit a gloom; 
Far from all resort of mirth, 
Save the cricket on the hearth. 
Or the bellman's drowsy charm 
To bless the doors from nightly harm. 

Or let my lamp at midnight hour 
Be seen in some high lonely tower, 
Where I may oft out-watch the Bear 
With thrice-great Hermes, or unsphere 
The spirit of Plato, to unfold 
What worlds or what vast reg^ions hold 
The immortal iniiid that hath forsook 
Her mansion in this fleshly nook: 
And of those demons that are found 
In fire, air, flood, or under-ground, 
Whose power hath a true consent 
With planet, or with element. 
Some time let gorgeous Tragedy 
In sceptred pall come sweeping by. 
Presenting Thebes, or Pelops' line, 
Or the tale of Troy divine; 



IL PENSEROSO. 



53 



Or what (tliougli rare) of later age 
Ennobled hath the buskin 'd stage. 

But, O sad Virgin, that thy power 
Mio'ht raise Musseus from his bower, 
Or bid the soul of Orpheus sing 
Such notes as, warbled to the string, 
Drew iron tears down Pluto's cheek 
And made Hell grant what Love did seek I 
Or call up him that left half- told 
The story of Cambuscan bold. 
Of Camball, and of Algarsife, 
And who had Canace to wife 
That own'd the virtuous rins^ and olass: 
And of the wondrous horse of brass 
On which the Tartar kingr did ride: 
And if aught else great bards beside 
In sacre and solemn tunes have suns: 
Of turneys, and of trophies hung, 
Of forests, and enchantments drear, 
Where more is meant than meets the ear. 

Thus, Night, oft see me In thy pale career, 
Till civil-suited Morn appear. 
Not trick'd and frounced as she was wont 
With the Attic Boy to hunt. 
But kerchieft in a comely cloud, 
While rocking winds are piping loud, 
Or usher 'd with a shower still. 
When the gust hath blown his fill. 
Ending^ on the rustling: leaves 
With minute drops from off the eaves. 
And when the sun begins to fling 
His flaring beams, me, Goddess, bring 
To arched walks of twilioht crroves. 
And shadows brown, that Sylvan loves, 
Of pine, or monumental oak. 



51 BALLADS A^D LYRLCS. 

\^'here the rude axe, with heavfed stroke, 
Was never heard the nymphs to daunt 
Or fright them from their hallow'd haunt ; 
There in close covert by some brook 
Where no profaner eye may look, 
Hide me from day's garish eye, 
While the bee with honev'd thiorh 

» o 

That at her flowerv work doth sins:, 

And the waters murmuring, 

With such concert as they keep, 

Entice the dewy-feather' d Sleep; 

And let some strange mysterious dream 

Wave at his wincrs in aerv stream 

Of hvely portraiture displayed, 

Softly on my eyelids laid: 

And, as I wake, sweet music breathe 

Above, about, or underneath. 

Sent by some spirit to mortals good, 

Or the unseen genius of the wood. 

But let my due feet never fail 
To walk the studious cloister's pale, 
And love the high-embowed roof. 
With antique pillars massy proof. 
And storied widows richly dight, 
Castinor a dim relictions ligrht: 
There let the pealing organ blow 
To the full- voiced quire below 
In service high and anthems clear, 
As may with sweetness, through mine ear, 
Dissolve me into ecstasies 
And bring all heaven before mine eyes. 

And may at last my weary age 
Find out the peaceful hermitage, 
The hairy gown and mossy cell. 
Where I may sit and rightly spell 




" Yet if rough Neptune rouse the wind 
To wave the azure main." See p. 55- 



TO ALL YOU LADIES NO W ON LAND:' 55 

Of every star that heaven doth show, 
And every herb that sips the dew; 
Till old experience do attain 
To something like prophetic strain. 

These pleasures, Melancholy, give, 
And I with thee will choose to live. 

John Milton. 



''TO ALL YOU LADIES NOW ON LAND.^' 

SONG WRITTEN AT SEA. 

To all you ladies now on land, 

We men at sea indite ; 
But first would have you understand 

How hard it is to write : 
The Muses now, and Neptune too. 
We must implore to write to you. 

For tho' the Muses should prove kind, 

And fill our empty brain ; 
Yet if rough Neptune rouse the wind. 

To wave the azure main. 
Our paper, pen, and ink, and we 
Roll up and down our ships at sea. 

Then, if we write not by each post. 

Think not we are unkind ; 
Nor yet conclude our ships are lost 

By Dutchmen or by wind ; 
Our tears we '11 send a speedier way : 
The tide shall bring them twice a day. 

The king, with wonder and surprise, 
Will swear the seas grow bold ; 



-f- 



56 BALLADS AND LYRICS. 

Because the tides will higrher rise 

Than e'er they did of old : 
But let him know it is our tears 
Brino; floods of o^rief to Whitehall-stairs. 

Should foggy Opdam chance to know 

Our sad and dismal story, 
The Dutch would scorn so weak a foe, 

And quit their fort at Goree ; 
For what resistance can they find 
From men who 've left their hearts behind 1 

Let wind and weather do its worst. 

Be you to us but kind; 
Let Dutchmen vapor, Spaniards curse, 

No sorrow we shall find : 
'T is then no matter how thino;s o-o, 
Or who 's our friend, or who 's our foe. 

To pass our tedious hours away. 

We throw a merry main : 
Or else at serious ombre play ; 

But why should we in vain 
Each other's ruin thus pursue ? 
We were undone when we left you. 

But now our fears tempestuous grow 

And cast our hopes away ; 
Whilst you, regardless of our wo, 

Sit careless at a play : 
Perhaps permit some happier man 
To kiss your hand, or flirt your fan. 

When any mournful tune you hear, 
That dies in every note. 



t 



SONG FOR SAINT CECILIA'S DAY. 57 

As if it sigh'd with each man's care 

For beinor so remote : 
Think then how often love we 've made 
To you, when all those tunes were play'd. 

In justice, you cannot refuse 

To think of our distress, 
When we for hopes of honor lose 

Our certain happiness ; 
All these designs are but to prove 
Ourselves more worthy of your love. 

And now we 've told you all our loves, 

And likewise all our fears, 
In hopes this declaration moves 

Some pity for our tears ; 
Let 's hear of no inconstancy, 
We have too much of that at sea. 

Charles Sackville, Earl of Dorset.^ 



SONG FOR SAINT CECILIA'S DAY. 

1687. 
From Harmony, from heavenly Harmony 

This universal frame began : 
When nature underneath a heap 

Of jarring atoms lay 

1 Charles Sackville, Viscount Buckhiirst, and afterwards 
Earl of Dorset, was born in 1637. In his youth he was one of 
the wildest and most debauched of all the courtiers who sur- 
rounded Chavies II., but he was always a man of refined tastes, 
^nd a patron of literature. He died in 1706. This song, the 
best known of his poems, was written on board the English fleet 
at the time of the first war between Charles II. and the Dutch, 
and on the eve of battle. 



58 BALLADS AND LYRICS. 

And could not heave lier bead, 

The tuneful voice was heard from high, 

Arise, ye more than dead! 
Then cold, and hot, and moist, and dry. 
In order to their stations leap, 

And Music's power obey. 
From Harmony, from heavenly Plarmony 

This universal frame began ; 

From Harmony to Harmony 
Through all the compass of the notes it ran, 
The diapason closing full in man. 

What passion cannot Music raise and quell ? 
When Jubal struck the chorded shell 
His listenino* brethren stood around, 
And, wondering, on their faces fell 
To worship that celestial sound. 

Less than a God they thought there could not dweL 
Within the hollow of that shell 
That spoke so sweetly and so well. 

What passion cannot Music raise and quell? 

The trumpet's loud clangor- 

Excites us to arms. 
With shrill notes of angler 

And mortal alarms. 
The double double double beat 
Of the thundering drum 
Cries, " Hark! the foes come; 
Charge, charge, 't is too late to retreat I " 

The soft complaining flute 
In dying notes discovers 
The woes of hopeless lovers, 
Whose dirge is whispered by the warbling lute. 



BB 



SONG FOR SAINT CECILIA'S DAY. 59 



Sliarp violins proclaim 
Their jealous pangs and desperation, 
Fury, frantic indignation, 
Depth of pains and height of passion 
For the fair disdainful dame. 

But O ! what art can teach , 
What human voice can reach. 

The sacred organ's praise? 
Notes inspiring holy love, 
Notes that wing their heavenly ways 

To mend the choirs above. 

Orpheus could lead the savage race. 
And trees uprooted left their place 

Sequacious of the lyre : 
But brigjht Cecilia raised the wonder higrher : 
When to her ors^an vocal breath was oiven 
An Angel heard, and straight appear'd — 

Mistaking Earth for Heaven! 

GRAND CHORUS. 

As from the power of sacred lays 

The spheres began to move. 
And sung the great Creator's praise 

To all the blest above; 
So when the last and dreadful hour 
This crumbling pageant shall devour. 
The trumpet shall be heard on high, 
The dead shall live, the living die, 
And music shall untune the sky. 

John Dryden.^ 

1 John Dryden, the most famous of the poets of the Restora- 
tion, was born in 1631, and educated at Westminster School and 
Trinity College, Cambridge. He was bred a Puritan, but went 



60 BALLADS AND LYRICS. 

VERSION OF THE NINETEENTH PSALM. 



The spacious firmament on high, 
With all the blue ethereal sky, 
And spangled heavens, a shining frame, 
Their great Original proclaim: 
Th' unwearied sun from day to day 
Does his Creator's power display. 
And publishes to every land 
The work of an Almighty hand. 

II. 

Soon as the evening shades prevail. 
The moon takes up the wondrous tale, 
And niirhtly to the list'ning earth 
Repeats the story of her birth: 
Whilst all the stars that round her burn, 
And all the planets, in their turn, 
Confirm the tidings as they roll. 
And spread the truth from pole to pole. 

III. 

What though, in solemn silence, all 
Move round the dark terrestrial ballV 
What tho' nor real voice nor sound 
Amid their radiant orbs be found ? 

over to Charles 11. at the Restoration and became a playwright, 
essayist, and poet. He was received into favor at court, and 
was made poet-laureate in 16G8. He wrote many plays, all of 
which are now deservedly forgotten, and some prose essays. His 
fame rests on his shorter poems, his satires of great force and 
brilliancy, and his translation of Virgil. He died May 1, 1700 
*nd was buried in Westminster Abbey. 



DYING CHRISTIAN TO HIS SOUL. 61 

In reason's ear they all rejoice, 
And utter forth a glorious voice, 
Forever singing, as they shine, 
** The hand that made us is divine.'' 

Joseph Addison.^ 



THE DYING CHRISTIAN TO HIS SOUL. 

Vital Spark of heavenly flame. 
Quit, O quit this mortal frame! 
Trembling, hoping, lingering, flying, 
O the pain, the bliss of dying! 
Cease, fond nature, cease thy strife, 
And let me lanoruish into life! 

Hark! they whisper; angels say. 
Sister spirit, come away. 
What is this absorbs me quite. 
Steals my senses, shuts my sight, 

1 Joseph Addisox, the eldest son of Lancelot Addison, Dean 
of Lichtield, was born at Milston, Wiltshire, in 1672. He was 
educated at the Charter House, and afterwards at Oxford, where 
he had a high reputation for classical scholarship. He at once 
ventui'ed into literature, and a successful poem gained him a 
pension from King William. He then travelled abroad, and on 
his return in 1704 attracted the notice of Queen Anne's govern- 
ment by a poem on the battle of Blenheim, entitled The Cam- 
paign. The favor thus gained soon bore fruit. He was made 
Commissioner of Appeals and under Secretary of State, and ably 
defended with his pen the Whig ministry. In 1716 he married 
the Countess of Warwick, and died at Holland House, London, in 
the forty-eighth year of his age. Addison wrote the tragedy of 
^ato, and some minor poems, but his literary fame rests on the 
essays contributed to the Sjiectator and Tatler. These essays, 
abounding in wit, humor, and refined criticism, give Addison 
his position as one of the tirst of English prose writers. 



'mB 



BALLADS AND LYRICS. 

Drowns my spirits, draws mj breath ? 
Tell me, my Soul! can this be death? 

The world recedes; it disappears ; 

Heaven opens on my eyes ; my ears 

With sounds seraphic ring : 

Lend, lend your wings I I mount! I fly! 

O grave! where is thy victory? 

O death! where is thy sting? 

Alexander Pope.^ 



S0LITUDE.2 

Happy the man whose wish and care 
A few paternal acres bound, 
Content to breathe his native air 
In his own o-round. 

1 Alexander Pope, the son of a merchant, was born in Lon- 
don in May, 1688. He was deformed in body, and as his parents 
were Roman Cathohcs he was educated at home or at private 
schools. He was a bo}'' of great precocity and began at an early 
period his literary career, to which he was wholly devoted. All 
his important works, including, of course, the translations of 
Homer, are in verse. Some are poems on fashionable society, 
others philosophical and critical, and others still are satire, in 
which Pope excelled. In the various fields of original poetry 
which he entered he has hardly ever been surpassed, and was, 
with the exception of Swift, the greatest of the remarkable 
group of literary men known as the school of Queen Anne. 
Pope passed his life quietly at Twickenham, in the neighbor- 
hood of London, where -he saw the best society of the time, and 
carried on the bitter paper warfare into which his vanity and 
irritable temper constantly led him. He died at Twickenhaiu 
in 1744. 

2 Written when the author was about twelve years old. 



TO A CHILD OF QUALITY. 63 

Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread, 
Whose flocks supply him with attire, 
Whose trees in summer yield him shade, 
In winter fire. 

Bless'd who can unconeern'dly find 
Hours, days, and years slide soft away, 
In health of body, peace of mind, 
Quiet by day; 

Sound sleep by night; study and ease 
Together mixed ; sweet recreation ; 
And innocence, which most does please, 
With meditation. 

Thus let me live, unseen, unknown. 
Thus unlamented let me die; 
Steal from the world, and not a stone 
Tell where I lie. 

Alexander Pope. 



TO A CHILD OF QUALITY.i 

Lords, knights, and squires, the numerous band, 
That wear the fair Miss Mary's fetters. 

Were summoned by her high command. 
To show their passions by their letters. 

My pen among the rest I took. 

Lest those bright eyes that cannot read 

Should dart their kindling fires, and look 
The power they have to be obey'd. 

1 Five years old, 1704 ; the author then forty. 



64 BALLADS AND LYRICS. 

Nor quality, nor reputation, 

Forbid me yet my flame to tell, 
Dear five years old befriends my passion, 

And I may write till she can spell. 

For, while she makes her silk worms beds 

With all the tender things I swear. 
Whilst all the house my passion reads. 

In papers round her baby's hair; 

She may receive and own my flame, 

For, though the strictest prudes should know it, 
She '11 pass for a most virtuous dame, 

And I for an unhappy poet. 

Then too, alas ! when she shall tear 

The lines some younger rival sends, 
She '11 give me leave to write, I fear. 

And we shall still continue friends. 

For as our different aires move, 

'Tis so ordained (would Fate but mend it!) 
That I shall be past making love, 

When she begins to comprehend it. 

Matthew Prior. ^ 

1 Matthew Prior was born in Devonshire in 1664 and adopted 
by his uncle, the landlord of a London tavern, who sent him to 
Westminster School. His cleverness and knowledge of Latin are 
said to have attracted the notice of Lord Dorset, who sent him to 
Cambridge, and Avho afterwards certainly pushed his fortunes. 
He entered politics, held many important offices, both at home 
and in diplomatic service, and finally rose to be minister at Paris, 
when Lord Bolingbroke was at the head of affairs, during the last 
years of Queen Anne. On the death of the queen and the fall 
of the Tories from power Prior was thro^rn into prison by the 
Whigs, but was discharged without a trial He died at Wimpole 



■1 pucxk 



ELEGY IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD. 65 



ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCH- 
YARD. 

The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, 
The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea, 
The ploughman homeward plods his weary way, 
And leaves the world to darkness and to me. 

Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, 
And all the air a solemn stillness holds. 
Save where the beetle wheels his dronino- ilia-ht. 
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds: 

Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower 
The moping owl does to the moon complain 
Of such as, wandering near her secret bower, 
Molest her ancient solitary reign. 

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade. 
Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap. 
Each in his narrow cell forever laid, 
The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. 

riv breezy call of incense-breathing morn. 
The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed, 
The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, 
No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed. 

ill 1721. During all his active life he never lost his taste for let- 
ters, or ceased to write both prose and verse. Besides his me- 
moirs he left many poems, almost all of a light and easy charac- 
ter, but displaying wit, fancy, and humor. He was a genial man 
and agreeable companion, but he was a loose liver, extravagant, 
md had low tastes in some respects which he freely indulged. 
5 



f 



66 BALLADS AND LYRICS, 

For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, 
Or busy housewife ply her evening care: 
No children run to lisp their sire's return, 
Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share. 

Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield, 
Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke; 
Flow jocund did they drive their team afield ! 
How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke I 

Let not Ambition mock their useful toil, 
Their homely joys, and destiny obscure; 
Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile 
The short and simple annals of the poor. 

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, 
And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, 
Await alike tli' inevitable hour: 
The paths of glory lead but to the grave. 

Nor you, ye Proud, impute to these the fault 
If Memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise. 
Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault 
The pealing anthem swells the note of praise 

Can storied urn or animated bust 

Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? 

Can Honor's voice provoke the silent dust. 

Or Flattery soothe the dull, cold ear of Death? 

Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid 
Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire; 
Hands that the rod of Empire might have sway'd, 
Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre: 



1 



ELEGY IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD. 67 

But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page, 
Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er unroll; 
Chill Penury repress'd their noble rage, 
And froze the genial current of the soul. 

Full many a gem of purest ray serene 
The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear; 
Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, 
And waste its sweetness on the desert air. 

Some village Hampden, that with dauntless breast 
The little tyrant of his fields withstood, 
Some mute, inglorious Milton here may rest. 
Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country's blood. 

Th' applause of listening senates to command, 
The threats of pain and ruin to despise, 
To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land, 
And read their history in a nation's eyes. 

Their lot forbade; nor circumscribed alone 
Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined; 
Forbade to wade throuo-h slauo-hter to a throne, 
And shut the gates of mercy on mankind ; 

The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide, 
To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame, 
Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride 
With incense kindled at the Muse's flame. 

Far from the maddino; crowd's io-noble strife 
Their sober wishes never learn'd to stray; 
Along the cool, sequester'd vale of life 
They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. 



6« BALLADS AND LYRICS. 

Yet e'en these bones from insult to protect, 

Some frail memorial still erected nigh, 

V\'ith uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck'd, 

Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. 

Their name, their years, spelt by th' unletter'd Muse, 
The place of fame and elegy supply: 
And many a holy text around she strews 
That teach the rustic moralist to die. 

For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey, 
This pleasing, anxious being e'er resign'd, 
Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day. 
Nor cast one lonorinor linorerinor look behind? 

CO' o o 

On some fond breast the parting soul relies. 
Some pious drops the closing eye requires ; 
E'en from the tomb the voice of Xature cries. 
E'en in our ashes \i\e their wonted fires. 

For thee, who, mindful of th'unhonor'd dead, 
Dost in these lines their artless tale relate; 
If chance, by lonely Contemplation led, 
Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate, — 

Ilaply some hoary-headed swain may say. 
Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn 
Brushing with hasty steps the dews away. 
To meet the sun upon the upland lawn; 

There, at the foot of yonder nodding beech 
That wreathes its old fantastic roots so hio^h, 
His listless length at noontide would he stretch. 
And pore upon the brook that babbles by. 




ELEGY IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD. 



Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, 
Muttering his wayward fancies he would rove ; 
Now drooping, woeful- wan, like one forlorn. 
Or crazed with care, or cross'd in hopeless love. 

One morn I miss'd him on the custom'd hill, 
Along the heath, and near his favorite tree; 
Another came ; nor yet beside the rill, 
Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he ; 

The next, with dirges due in sad array 

Slow through the church-way path we saw him borne, — t 

Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay i 

Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn. ' 

THE EPITAPH. | 

Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth \ 

A Youth to Fortune and to Fame unknown ; j 

Fair Science frown'd not on his humble birth, | 

And Melancholy marked him for her own. I 

Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere ; I 

Heaven did a recompense as largely send: 

He gave to Misery, all he had, a tear. 

He gain'd from Heaven, 't was all he wisli'd, a friend. 

No farther seek his merits to disclose. 
Or draw his frailties from their dread abode 
(There they alike in trembling hope repose) , 
The bosom of his Father and his God. 

Thomas Gray.^ 

"J^ Thomas Gray was born in London, in December, 1716. 
Through the care of his mother he received a good education, 
6rst at Eton and then at Cambridge. After leaving the univer- 
sity he travelled on the Continent with Horace Walpole, return- 

; 

I 



70 BALLADS AND LYRICS. 



THE BARD.i 

PINDARIC ODE. 

** Ruin seize tliee, ruthless King! 

Confusion on thy banners wait ! 
Tho' fanned by Conquest's crimson wing 

They mock the air with idle state. 
Helm, nor hauberk's twisted mail, 
Nor e'en thy virtues, tyrant, shall avail 
To save thy secret soul from nightly fears. 
From Cambria's curse, from Cambria's tears! " 
Such were the sounds that o'er the crested pride 

Of the first Edward scattered wild dismay. 
As down the steep of Snowdon's shaggy side 

He wound with toilsome march his long array. 
Stout Glo'ster stood aghast in speechless trance; 
" To arms! " cried Mortimer, and couched his quiver- 
ing lance. 

ing in 1741. The following year he settled at Cambridge, 
where, with the exception of occasional visits to London, he 
passed the remainder of his life. He refused the position of 
poet-laureate in 1757, and in 1769 was made professor of mod- 
ern history. He died of an attack of the gout in 1771. He 
was a ripe scholar and led a retired life of learned leisure, which 
was most congenial to his modest disposition and studious 
tastes. He published but few poems, as he was never satisfied 
with his work, and passed an endless time in polishing every- 
thing he wrote. The few poems he did publish are all most 
perfect in execution, and the Elegy is one of the most famous 
l)oems in the language. It was of the Elegy that Wolfe re- 
marked, when about to attack the French on the Heights of 
Abraham, that he would rather have written that poem than 
take Quebec. 

1 This poem refers to the conquest of Wales by Edward I., 
and is supposed to be the prophecy of one of the bards or harp- 
ers who figured conspicuously among the Welsh. 



\- 



THE BARD. 71 

On a rock, whose haughty brow 
Frowns o'er cold Conway's foaming flood, 

Robed in the sable garb of woe, 
With hao^o;ard eves the Poet stood : 
(Loose his beard and hoary hair 
Streamed, like a meteor, to the troubled air) 
And with a master's hand, and prophet's fire, 
Struck the deep sorrows of his lyre. 
" Hark, how each giant oak, and desert-cave, 

Sighs to the torrent's awful voice beneath! 
O'er thee, O King! their hundred arms they wave, 

Kevenge on thee in hoarser murmurs breathe; 
Vocal no more, since Cambria's fatal day, 
To high-born Hoel's harp, or soft Llewellyn's lay. 

'* Cold is Cadwallo's tongue. 

That hush'd the stormy main: 
Brave Urien sleeps upon his craggy bed: 

Mountains, ye mourn in vain 

Modred, whose magic song 
Made huge Plinlimmon bow his cloud-topt head. 

On dreary Arvon's shore they lie, 
Smeared with gore, and ghastly pale: 
Far, far aloof th' affrighted ravens sail ; 

The famished eagle screams, and passes by. 
Dear lost companions of my tuneful art. 

Dear as the light that visits these sad eyes, 
Dear as the ruddy drops that warm my heart, 

Ye died amidst your dying country's cries — 
No more I weep. They do not sleep. 

On yonder cliffs, a griesly band, 
I ,see them sit, they linger yet, 

Aveno-ers of their native land : 
With me in dreadful harmony they join, 
And weave with bloody hands the tissue of thy lino. 




72 BALLADS AND LYRICS. 

" Weave the warp, and weave the woof, 

The winding-sheet of Edward's race. j 

Give ample room, and verge enough 

The characters of hell to trace. 
Mark the year, and mark the night, 
When Severn shall reecho with affriorht 
The shrieks of death thro' Berkley's roof that ring, 
Shrieks of an anjonizingr kinij! ^ 

She- wolf of France, with unrelenting fangs. 
That tear'st the bowels of thy mangled mate, 

From thee be born, who o'er thy country hangs 
The scourge of heaven. What terrors round him wait 
Amazement in his van, with flight combined, 
And Sorrow's faded form, and Solitude behind. 

" Mighty victor, mighty lord! ^ 

Low on his funeral couch he lies ! 
No pitying heart, no eye, afford 

A tear to grace his obsequies. 
Is the sable warrior fled ? ^ 
Thv son is orone. He rests amono; the dead. 
The swarm that in thy noontide beam were born? 
Gone to salute the rising morn. 
Fair laughs the morn, and soft the zephyr blows, 

While proudly riding o'er the azure realm 
In gallant trim the srilded vessel s-oes, 

Youth on the prow, and Pleasure at the h^lm. 
Regardless of the sweeping whirlwind's sway. 
That, husli'd in grim repose, expects his ev'ning prey. 

1 This stanza refers to Edward II., son of the conqueror of 
Wales, who was murdered in Berkley Castle at the instigation 
of his Queen Isabella, referred to below as "she-wolf of France." 

'^ Edward III., conqueror of France, said to have been neg- 
lected and deserted in his last moments and after his death. 

8 The Black Prince, son of Edward III., who died at Bordeaux, 



THE BARD. 73 

*' Fill high the sparkling bowl, 
The rich repast prepare ; 

Reft of a crown, he yet may share the feast: ^ 
Close by the regal chair 

Fell Thirst and Famine scowl 

A baleful smile upon their baffled guest. 
Heard ye the din of battle bray, 

Lance to lance, and horse to horse? 

Long years of havoc urge their destined course, 
And thro' the kindred squadrons mow their way.* 

Ye towers of Julias, London's lasting shame, 
With many a foul and midnight murder fed, 

Kevere his Consort's faith, his father's fame, 
And spare the meek usurper's holy head.^ 
Above, below, the rose of snow. 

Twined with her blushing foe, we spread : 
The bristled boar in infant orore 

Wallows beneath the thorny shade* 
Now, brothers, bending o'er the accursed loom, 
Stamp we our vengeance deep, and ratify his doom. 



*' Edward, lo! to sudden fate 

(Weave we the woof. The thread is spun.) 
Half of thy heart we consecrate. 

(The web is wove. The work is done.) 
Stay, O stay ! nor thus forlorn 
Leave me unblessed, unpitied, here to mourn: 

1 Richard IT., son of the Black Prince, who was forced to ab 
dicate by the Duke of Lancaster, afterwards Henry IV. 

'^ This passage refers to the long and bloody Wars of the Rose? 
between the rival houses of York and Lancaster. 

3 Henry YL, murdered in the Tower and succeeded by VA- 
ward lY., of the house of York. 

4 The Duke of Gloucester, afterwards Richard IIL, who is 
supposed to have murdered, in the Tower of London, his nephews 
Edward Y. and the young Duke of York, sons of Edward lY. 



74 BALLADS AXD LYRICS. 

In von bright track, that fires the western skies, 

They melt, they vanish from my eyes. 

But O! what solemn scenes on Snowdon's height 

Descending slow their glittering skirts unroll? 
Visions of glory, spare my aching sight! 

Ye unborn ages, crowd not on my soul! 
No more our long-lost Arthur we bewail. 
All haih ye genuine kings, Britannia's issue, hail! 

* ' Girt with many a baron bold 
Sublime their starry fronts they rear; 

And crororeous dames, and statesmen old 
In bearded majesty, appear. 
In the midst a form divine ! 
Her eye proclaims her of the Briton-Line : ^ 
Her lion-port, her awe-commanding face. 
Attemper' d sweet to virgin-grace. 
What strings symphonious tremble in the air, 

What strains of vocal transport round her play. 
Hear from the grave, great Taliessin, hear; 

They breathe a soul to animate thy clay. 
Bright Rapture calls, and, soaring as she sings, 
Waves in the eye of heaven her many-color'd wings. 

'**The verse adorn again 

Fierce war, and faithful love, 
And truth severe by fairy fiction drest. 

In buskin'd measures move 
Pale grief, and pleasing pain, 
With horror, tyrant of the throbbing breast. 
A voice, as of the cherub-choir. 

Gales from blooming Eden bear; 

And distant warblings lessen on my ear, 
That lost in long futurity expire. 

1 Queen Elizabeth. 



ODE WRITTEN IN MDCCXLVI. 75 

Fond impious man, tbink'st thou yon sanguine cloud, 

Raised by thy breath, has quench'd the orb of day ? 
To-morrow he repairs the golden flood, 

And warms the nations with redoubled ray. 
Enough for me, with joy I see 

The different doom our fates assign. 
Be thine despair and sceptred care. 

To triumph, and to die, are mine.'' 
He spoke, and headlong from the mountain's height 
Deep in the roaring tide he plunged to endless night. 

Thomas Gray. 



ODE WRITTEN IN MDCCXLYI.i 

How sleep the Brave who sink to rest 
By all their Country's wishes blest! 
When Spring, with dewy fingers cold, 
Returns to deck their hallow'd mould. 
She there shall dress a sweeter sod 
Than Fancy's feet have ever trod. 

By fairy hands their knell is rung, 
By forms unseen their dirge is sung : 
There Honor comes, a pilgrim gray, 
To bless the turf that wraps their clay, 
And Freedom shall awhile repair 
To dwell a weeping hermit there ! 

William Collins. ^ 

This was the period of the war between Great Britain and 
Spaji. 

2 William Collins was born in Chichester in 1720, and edu- 
cated at Winchester School and Oxford. While still in college 
he wrote some of his best poems, the Persian Eclogues. He did 
aot succeed, however, as a literary man, and the effects of his fail- 



/6 Ballads axd lyrics. 



ox A FAVORITE CAT. DROWXED IX A 
TUB OF GOLD FISHES. 

'Tttas on a loftv vase's siJe 
^^'be^e China's gayest art liad dyed 

The azure flowers that blow; 
Demurest of the tabby kind. 
The pensive SeUma, reclined, 

Gazed on the lake below. 

« Her conscious tail her joy declared; 

The fair round face, the snowy beard, 

The velvet of her paws, 
Her coat, that with the tortoise vies, 
Her ears of jet, and emerald eyes, 
She saw; and purr'd applause. 

Still had she gazed: but 'midst the tide 
Two angel forms were seen to glide, 

The Genii of the stream : 
Their scaly armor's Tyrian hue 
Through richest purple to the view 

Betray 'd a golden gleam. 

The hapless nymph wirh wonder saw: 
A whisker first, and then a claw, 

With many an ardent wish, 
She stretch'd, in vain, to reach the prize. 
What female heart can gold despise ? 

WhsLt Cat 's averse to fish ? 

are and his irregular life brought on a s€ttled melancholy. He 
travelled on the Continent, but returned only to become the in- 
mate of a lunatic asylum, and died soon after his discharge, in 
1756. His life was sad and an apparent failure, but his Utics 
hold a high place in ElngUsh literature. 



ELEGY. 77 

Presumptuous maid ! with looks intent 
Again she stretch 'd, aoain she bent, 

Nor knew the gulf between. 
(Malignant Fate sat by and smiled.) 
The slippery verge her feet beguiled, 

She tumbled headlong in. 

Eio^ht times emerorins^ from the flood 
She mew'd to every watery God 

Some speedy aid to send : 
No Dolphin came, no Nereid stirr'd, 
Nor cruel Tom, nor Susan heard. 

A fav'rite has no friend ! 

From hence, ye beauties, undeceived, 
Know one false step is ne'er retrieved, 

And be with caution bold. 
Not all that tempts your wandering eyes 
And heedless hearts is lawful prize, 

Nor all, that glisters, gold ! 

Thomas Gray. 



ELEGY 

ON THE DEATH OF A MAD DOG. 

Good people all, of every sort, 

Give ear unto my song ; 
And if you find it wondrous short, — 

It cannot hold you long. 



In Islington there was a man, 
Of whom the world might say, 



78 BALLADS AND LYRICS. 

That still a godly race he ran, — 
Whene'er he went to pray. 

A kind and gentle heart lie had, 

To comfort friends and foes ; 
The naked every day he clad, — 

When he put on his clothes. 

And in tliat town a doer was found. 

As many dogs there be, 
Botli mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound. 

And curs of low deg^ree. 

This dog and man at first were friends, 

But then a pique began ; 
The dog, to gain some private ends, 

Went mad, and bit the man. 

Around from all the neio-hborino: streets 

The wondering neighbors ran, 
And swore the dog had lost his wits, 

To bite so good a man. 

The wound it seem'd both sore and sad 

To every Christian eye ; 
And while they swore the dog was mad, 

They swore the man would die. 

But soon a wonder came to light. 
That show'd the rosfues thev lied: 

The man recovered of the bite. 
The dog it was that died. 

Oliver Goldsmith. ^ 

I Oliveii Golds^iith, the son of a clergyman, was born in 
Longford County, Ireland, in 1728. After such an education as 



^*^f^■'V r-w^rr- 



AN ELEGY, 79 

AN ELEGY 

DN THAT GLORY OF HER SEX, MRS. MARY BLAIZE 

Good people all, with one accord, 

Lament for Madame Blaize, 
Who never wanted a o-ood word — 

From those who spoke her praise. 

The needy seldom pass'd her door, 

And always found her kind ; 
She freely lent to all the poor, — 

Who left a pledge behind. 

She strove the neighborhood to please, 
With manners wond'rous winning^; 

And never follow'd wicked ways, — 
Unless when she was sinninor. 

At church, in silks and satins new, 

With hoop of monstrous size; 
She never slumber'd in her pew, — 

But when she shut her eyes. 

could be obtained at the ^^llage school, he entered Dublin Col- 
lege, and graduated, after some mishaps, in 1749. His life was 
one long and bitter straggle to maintain himself by his pen. He 
was alwaj^s in debt and lived loosely. He was a warm-hearted 
and humorous Irishman, and a brilliant writer. Amid a mass of 
hack work which he produced to gain his daily bread, were some 
of the best works of their kind in the language, notably, the Vicar 
of Wakefield, a novel possessing the most enduring charm which 
.lumor and pathos combined can give. He wrote also many es- 
says and some plays and poems, and was the friend of Samuel 
Johnson, Sir Joshua Reynolds, Edmund Burke, and others of the 
most brilliant men of his time. He died in London, in 1774 
rvhen at the height of his fame. 



30 BALLADS AND LYRICS. 

Her love was sought, I do aver, 

By twenty beaux and more; 
The king himself has follow'd her, — 

When she has walk'd before. 

But now her wealth and finery fled, 

Her hangers-on cut short all ; 
The doctors found, when she was dead, — 

Her last disorder mortal. 

Let us lament, in sorrow sore, 
For Kent Street well may say, 

That had she liv'd a twelve-month more, — 
She had not died to-day. 

Oliver Goldsmith. 



LOSS OF THE ROYAL GEOEGE.i 

Toll for the Brave! 
The brave that are no more ! 
All sunk beneath the wave 
Fast by their native shore! 

Eight hundred of the brave. 
Whose courage well was tried. 
Had made the vessel heel 
And laid her on her side. 

A land-breeze shook the shrouds 
And she was overset ; 

1 The Royal George, a first rate man-of-war, was overset while 
1} ing at anchor at Spithead, by the guns rolling to one side when 
%e vessel was careened to be repaired. Rear Admiral Kempen- 
^elt was drowned with all on board, about six hundred persons. 
The disaster occurred August 29, 1782. 



LOSS OF THE ROYAL GEORGE. 81 

Down went the Royal George, 
With all her crew complete. 

Toll for the brave ! 
Brave Kempenf elt is gone ; 
His last sea-fight is fought, 
His work of glory done. 

It was not in the battle ; 
No tempest gave the shock; 
She sprang no fatal leak, 
She ran upon no rock. 

His sword was in its sheath, 
His fingers held the pen, 
When Kempenfelt went down 
With twice four hundred men. 

Weigh the vessel up 
Once dreaded by our foes! 
And mingle with our cup 
The tear that England owes. 

Her timbers yet are sound, 

And she may float again 

Full charged with England's thunder, 

And plough the distant main: 

But Kempenfelt is gone, 

His victories are o'er: 

And he and his eight hundred 

Shall plough the wave no more. 

William Cowper.^ 

1 WiLf.iAM CowPER, son of tlie Rev. John Cow per, of the 
family of Earl Cowper, was born at Berkhampstead, November 



82 



BALLADS AND LYRICS. 



IS THERE, FOR HONEST POVERTY, 

Is there, for honest poverty. 

That hangs his head, and a' that? 
The coward slave, we pass him by. 

We dare be poor for a' that ! 
For a' that, and a' that, 

Our toils obscure, and a' that ; 
The rank is but the guinea's stamp, 

The man 's the gowd for a' that! 



What tho' on hamely fare we dine. 

Wear hoddin gray, and a' that; 
Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine, 

A man 's a man, for a' that! 
For a' that, and a' that, 

Their tinsel show, and a' that; 
The honest man, though e'er sae poor, 

Is king o' men for a' that ! 

Ye see yon birkie, ca'd a lord, 

Wha struts, and stares, and a' that ; 



26, 1731. He was a delicate child, and after leaving Westminstei 
School, where he had a good reputation for scholarship, entered 
a lawyer's office and took chambers subsequently, intending to 
practise at the bar. His health, however, gave way, and his 
mind was seriousl}^ affected. The disease took the form of re- 
ligious mania and melancholy, and recurred, at intervals, with 
^'reater or less acuteness through his life. Incapacitated for ac- 
tive pursuits Cowper retired to the country, and passed his life 
in the little village of Olney, in the house of Mrs. Unwin, who 
befriended him and to whom some of his most beautiful lyrics 
were addressed. He devoted himself to literature in his retire- 
-mient, where he passed a peaceful life. He died in 1800. 



IS THERE, FOR HONEST POVERTY. 83 

Though hundreds worship at his word, 

He 's but a coof for a' that: 
For a' that, and a' that, 

His riband, star, and a* that, 
The man of independent mind. 

He looks and laughs at a' that! 

A kino^ can mak a belted knio-ht, 

A marquis, duke, and a' that; 
But an honest man 's aboon his might, 

Guid faith he mauna fa' that! 
For a' that, and a' that. 

Their dignities, and a' that, 
The pith o' sense, and pride o' worth, 

Are higher ranks than a' that. 

Then let us pray that come it may — 

As come it will for a' that — 
That sense and worth, o'er a' the earth, 

May bear the gree, and a' that; 
For a' that, and a' that, 

It's comin' yet for a' that, 
That man to man, the warld o'er. 

Shall brothers be for a' that ! 

Egbert Burxs.^ 

1 Robert Burns was the son of a small farmer in Alloway, 
Scotland. He was born in 1759, and received a meagre educa- 
tion at the village school. Bat the love of knowledge there 
awakened led him to pursue his studies and educate himself so 
far as possible by every means in his power. He began to 
write verses at the age of sixteen, and was then brought into 
notice and received at Edinburgh, when^, he first fell into the 
iiabits of excessive drinking which proved his curse. He was 
appointed an exciseman or ganger, which tended to increase his 
rUtemperate habits, and although he afterwards returned to 
farming, his excesses had undermined his constitution and he 



84 BALLADS AND LYRICS. 



THE SOLITUDE OF ALEXANDER SELKIRK.^ 

I AM monarcli of all T survey; 
My right there is none to dispute; 
From the centre all round to the sea 
I am lord of the fowl and the brute. 

Solitude! where are the charms 
That sages have seen in thy face? 
Better dwell in the midst of alarms 
Than reign in this horrible place. 

1 am out of humanity's reach, 

I must finish my journey alone, 
Never hear the sweet music of speech; 
I start at the sound of my own. 
The beasts that roam over the plain 
My form with indifference see; 
They are so unacquainted with man, 
Their tameness is shocking to me. 

Society, Friendship, and Love, 
Divinely bestow'd upon man, 
O had I the wings of a dove 
How soon would I taste you ao-ain I 

died of a fever in 1796, at the age of thirty-seven. His lyrics 
are among the best in the language, in sentiment and expres- 
sion, and some of his longer poems abound in rollicking hu- 
mor as well as deep and simple feeling. He wrote sometimes 
in English, but his best work was done in his native Scotch 
dialect. 

1 Selkirk was a Scotch sailor who was cast away upon the un- 
inhabited island of Juan Fernandez, off the west coast of South 
America, in 1704. Here he remained in utter solitude for four 
years, when he was taken off by an English ship. His advent- 
ures suggested to Defoe his famous story of Robinson Crusoe. 




SOLITUDE OF ALEXANDER SELKIRK. 85 

M}- sorrows I then might assuage 
In the ways of religion and truth, 
Mio;ht learn from the wisdom of ao^e, 
And be cheer'd by the sallies of youth. 

Ye winds that have made me your sport, 

Convey to this desolate shore 

Some cordial, endearing report 

Of a land I shall visit no more: 

My friends, do they now and then send 

A wish or a thouoht after me ? 

O tell me I yet have a friend, 

Though a friend I am never to see. 

How fleet is a o^lance of the mind ! 
Compared with the speed of its flight, 
The tempest itself lags behind, 
And the swift-winoed arrows of lioht. 
When I think of my own native land 
In a moment I seem to be there; 
But alas! recollection at hand 
Soon hurries me back to despair. 

But the seafowl is gone to her nest, 
The beast is laid down in his lair; 
Even here is a season of rest, 
And I to my cabin repair. 
There 's mercy in every place. 
And mercy, encouraging thought! 
Gives even affliction a grace 
And reconciles man to his lot. 

William Cowper. 



mam 



x 



86 BALLADS AND LYRICS. 

MY HEART'S IN THE HIGHLANDS. 



My heart 's in the Highlands, my heart is not here; 
My heart 's in the Highlands a chasing the deer; 
Chasincr the wild deer, and following: the roe — 
Mv heart 's in the Hiohlands wherever I cro. 
Farewell to the Highlands, farewell to the North, 
The birthplace of valor, the country of worth; 
AVhcrever I wander, wherever I rove, 
The hills of the Hiohlands forever I love. 

o 

II. 

Farewell to the mountains high cover'd with snow; 
Farewell to the straths and green vallies below: 
Farewell to the forests and wild-hanoincr woods; 
Farewell to the torrents and loud-pouring floods. 
My heart 's in the Highlands, my heart is not here, 
My heart 's in the Highlands a chasing the deer: 
Chasinor the wild deer, and followino; the roe — 
My heart's in the Highlands, wherever I go. 

ROBKRT BURXS. 



THE DIVERTING HISTORY OF JOHN GILPIN, 

SHOWING HOW HE WENT FARTHER' THAN HE IN- 
TENDED, AND CAME SAFE HOME AGAIN. 

John Gilpin was a citizen 

Of credit and renown, 
A train-band Captain eke was he 

Of famous London town. 



THE HISTORY OF JOHN GTLPIN. 87 

John Gilpin's spouse said to her dear, 

Though wedded we have been 
These twice ten tedious years, yet we 

No holiday have seen. 

To-morrow is our wedding-day, 

And we will then repair 
Unto the Bell at Edmonton, 

All in a chaise and pair. 

My sister and my sister's child, 

Myself and children three, 
Will fill the chaise, so you must ride 

On horseback after we. 

He soon replied — I do admire 

Of womankind but one. 
And you are she, my dearest dear, 

Therefore it shall be done. 

I am a linen-draper bold, 

As all the world doth know. 
And my good friend the Callender 

Will lend his horse to go. 

Quoth Mrs. Gilpin — That 's well said; 

And for that wine is dear, 
We will be furnish'd with our own. 

Which is both bright and clear. — 

John Gilpin kiss'd his loving wife, 

O'erjoyed was he to find 
That though on pleasure she was bent, 

She had a fruo^al mind. 



88 BALLADS AND LYPdCS. 

The morning came, the chaise was brought. 

But vet was not allow'd 
To drive up to the door, lest all 

Should say that she was proud. 

So three doors off the chaise was stay'd, 

Where they did all get in. 
Six precious souls, and all agog 

To dash througrh thick and thin. 

Smack went the whip, round went the wheel. 

Were never folk so glad, 
The stones did rattle underneath 

As if Cheapside were mad. 

John Gilpin at his horse's side 
Seized fast the flowing mane, 

And up he got in haste to ride, 
But soon came down again. 

For saddle-tree scarce reach'd had he, 

His journey to begin. 
When turning^ round his head he saw 
Three customers come in. 

So down he came, for loss of time, 
Althouorh it on-ieved him sore, 

Yet loss of pence, full weU he knew, 
Would trouble him much more. 

'Twas long before the customers 

, Were suited to their mind. 
When Betty screaming came down stairs, 
'' The wine is left behind." 



THE HISTORY OF JOHN GILPIN, 89 

Good lack ! quoth he, yet bring it me, 

My leathern belt likewise, 
In which I bear my trusty sword I 

When I do exercise. 

Now Mistress Gilpin, careful soul, 

Had two stone bottles found. 
To hold the liquor that she loved. 

And keep it safe and sound. 

Each bottle had a curling ear, 

Through which the belt he drew, 
And hung a bottle on each side 

To make his balance true. 

Then over all, that he might be 

Equipped from top to toe. 
His long red cloak well brush'd and neat 

He manfully did throw. 

Now see him mounted once again 

Upon his nimble steed, 
Full slowly pacing o'er the stones 

With caution and good heed. 

But finding soon a smoother road 

Beneath his well-shod feet, 

The snortino; beast beo;an to trot, 
Which galled him in his seat. 



So, Fair and softly, John he cried, 
But John he cried in vain, 

That trot became a gallop soon 
In spite of curb and rein. 



90 BALLADS AND LYRICS. 

So stooping down, as needs he must 

Who cannot sit upright, 
He graspM the mane with both his hands 

And eke with all his might. 

His horse, who never in that sort 

Had handled been before, 
What thing upon his back had got 

Did wonder more and more. 

Away went Gilpin, neck or nought, 

Away went hat and wig, 
He little dreamt when he set out 

Of runnino; such a rio-. 

The wind did blow, the cloak did fly, 
Like streamer long and gay, 

Till loop and button failing both, 
At last it flew away. 

Then might all people well discern 

The bottles he had slung, 
A bottle swino'ino;: at each side 

As hath been said or sung. . 

The dogs did bark, the children screani'd, 

Up flew the windows all, 
And every soul cried out, Well done I 

As loud as he could bawl. 



Away went Gilpin — who but he; 

His fame soon spread around — 
He carries weight, he rides a race, 

'Tis for a thousand pound. 



TEE HISTORY OF JOHN GILPIN, 91 

And still as fast as he drew near, 

'T was wonderful to view- 
How in a trice the turnpike-men 

Their gates wide open threw. 

And now as he went bowino; down 

His reeking head fall low, 
The bottles twain behind his back 

Were shattered at a blow. 

Down ran the wine into the road, 

Most piteous to be seen, 
Which made his horse's flanks to smoke 

As they had basted been. 

But still he seem'd to carry weight. 

With leathern girdle braced, 
For all might see the bottle-necks 

Still -danoiing^ at his waist. 

Thus all through merry Islington 

These gambols he did play, 
And till he came into the Wash 

Of Edmonton so gay. 

And there he threw the Wash about 

On both sides of the way, "^ 

Just like unto a trundling mop. 
Or a wild-goose at play. 

At Edmonton his lovinor wife 

From the balcony spied 
Her tender husband, wondering much 

To see how he did ride. 



92 BALLADS AXD LYRICS, 

Stop, stop, John Gilpin ! — Here's tlie house 

They all at once did cry, 
The dinner waits, and we are tired : 

Said Gilpin — so am I. 

But yet his horse was not a whit 

Inclined to tarry there, 
For why ? his owner had a house 

Full ten miles off, at Ware. 

So like an arrow swift he flew 

Shot by an archer strong^, 
So did he flv — which brino;s me to 

The middle of my song. 

Away went Gilpin, out of breath, 

And sore against his will, 
Till at his friend's the Callender's 

His horse at last stood still. 

The Callender, amazed to see 

His neighbor in such trim, 
Laid down his pipe, flew to the gate, 

And thus accosted him — 

What news? what news? your tidings tell, 

Tell me you must and shall — 
Say why bare-headed you are come, 

Or why you come at all ? 

Now Gilpin had a pleasant wit 

And loved a timely joke, 
And thus unto the Callender 

In merry guise he spoke — 



THE HISTORY OF JOHN GILPIN. 93 

I came because your horse would come ; 

And if I well forebode, 
My hat and wig will soon be here, 

They are upon the road. 

The Callender, rio^ht grlad to find 

His friend in merry pin, 
Return'd him not a sino;le word, 

But to the house went in. 



Whence straight he came with hat and wig, 

A wior that flow'd behind, 
A hat not much the worse for wear. 

Each comely in its kind. 



He held them up and in his turn 

Thus show'd his ready wit, 
— My head is twice as big as yours, 

They therefore needs must fit. 

But let me scrape the dirt away 
That hangs upon your face; 

And stop and eat, for well you may 
Be in a hungry case. 

Said John — It is my wedding-day. 
And all the world would stare, 

If wife should dine at Edmontoli 
And I should dine at Ware. 

So turning to his horse, he said, 

I am in haste to dine, 
'T was for your pleasure you came here, 

You shall oro back for mine. 



[ 



H BALLADS ASD LYRICS. 

Ah, luckless speech, and bootless boast! 

For which he paid full dear; 
For while he spake a braying; ass 

Did sing most loud and clear. 

Whereat his horse did snort as he 

Had heard a lion roar, 
And gallop'd off with all his might 

As he had done before. 

Away went Gilpin, and away 
Went Gilpin's hat and wig; 

He lost them sooner than at first, 
For why? they were too h\%. 

Now Mistress Gilpin, when she saw 
Her husband posting down 

Into the country far away, 
She puird out half a crown; 

And thus unto the youth she said 
That drove them to the Bell, 

This shall be yours when you bring back 
My husband safe and well. 

The youth did ride, and soon did meet 

John coming back amain. 
Whom in a trice he tried to stop 

By catching at his rein. 

But not performing what he meant, 
And gladly would have done. 

The frighted steed he frighted more, 
And made him faster run. 



. n*^. i^ ^^M*^ 



THE HISTORY OF JOHN GILPIN. 95 

Away went Gilpin, and away 

Went post-boy at his heels, 
The post-boy's horse right glad to miss 

The lumbering of the wheels. 

Six gentlemen upon the road 

Thus seeing Gilpin fly, 
With post-boy scampering in the rear, 

They raised the hue and cry. 

Stop thief, stop thief — a highwayman ! 

Not one of them was mute, 
And all and each that pass'd that way 

Did join in the pursuit. 

And now the turnpike gates again 

Flew open in short space, 
The toll- men thin]cing as before 

That Gilpin rode a race. 

And so he did, and won it too, 

For he got first to town. 
Nor stopp'd till where he had got up _^ 

He did ao;ain g:et down. 

Now let us singr Lono; live the king^, 

And Gilpin, long live he. 
And when he next doth ride abroad, 

May I be there to see ! 

William Cowper. 



96 BALLADS AND LYRICS. 



MY BONNIE MARY. 

Go fetch to nie a pint o' wine, 

And fill it in a silver tassie; 
That I mav drink, before I o-o, 

A service to my bonnie lassie; 
The boat rocks at the pier o' Leith; 

Fu' loud the wind blaws frae the ferry; 
The ship rides by the Berwick-law, 

And I maun leave my bonnie Mary. 

The trumpets sound, the banners fly, 

The glittering spears are ranked ready ; 
The shouts o' war are heard afar, 

The battle closes thick and bloody; 
But it 's not the war o' sea or shore 

\Yad make me langer wish to tarry ; 
Nor shouts o' war that 's heard afar — 

It 's leaving thee, my bonnie Mary. 

Robert Burns. 



THE SLEEPING BEAUTY. 

Sleep on, and dream of Heaven awhile 
Tho' shut so close thy laaghing eyes, 
Thy rosy lips still wear a smile. 
And move, and breathe delicious sighs! 

Ah, now soft blushes tinge her cheeks 
And mantle o'er her neck of snow: 
Ah, now she murmurs, now she speaks 
What most I wish — and fear to know! 



i 



JOHiy ANDERSON. 97 i| 

She starts, she trembles, and she weeps I 
Her fan- hands folded on her breast: 
— And now, how like a saint she sleeps! 
A seraph in the realms of rest! 

Sleep on secure! Above control 
Thy thouo-hts belong; to Heaven and thee: 
And may the secret of thy soul 
Remain within its sanctuary I 

Samuel Kogers.^ 



JOHN ANDEESON. 

John Anderson my jo, John, 

When we were first acquent; 
Your locks were like the raven. 

Your bonnie brow was brent; 
But now your brow is bald, John, 

Your locks are like the snaw; 
But blessings on your frosty pow, 

John Anderson my jo. 

John Anderson my jo, John, 
We elamb the hill thegither; 

1 Sai^iuel Rogers was the son of a London banker and born in 
[J 1763. He succeeded to his father's business in 1793, but after a 

5 • few years retired with a sufficient fortune to live a life of leisure, 

and gratify his literary tastes and the love of poetry, which he 
had shown from his earliest years. He published a long descrip- 
tive poem, Italy ^ and a volume of short poems. He was best 
known, however, during his long life, as a wit and man of soci- 
ety, and was for two generations one of the most conspicuous 
figures in London life. He died in 1855. 




98 BALLADS ASD LYRLCS. 

And mony a canty day. John, 
We 've had wi' a::e anither: 

Xow we maun totter down. John, 
But hand in hand we 'il zo. 

And sleep thegither at the foot. 
John Anderson my jo. 

Robert Burxs, 



BRUCE TO HIS MEN AT BAXXOCElBURX.i 

Scots, wha hae wi' AVallace bled, 
Scots, wham Bruce ha? aften led: 

Or :o yictorie! 

Now 's the dav, and now *s the hour; 
See the front o' battle lour: 
See approach proud Edward's pow'r — 
Chains and ^lave^ieI 

"W" '" ' \ traitor-knave? 
Tr„: „„ 1^.. a coward's grave? 
Wha sae base as be a slave? 

Let him turn and flee ! 

Wha for Scotland's Kinsc and law 
E: : : s sword will strongly draw, 
Ereemaii stand or freeman fa' ? 
Let him follow me 1 

1 The battle of Bannockbum was fought on June 24, 1314. be- 
tween the Scotch, under Robert Bruce, and the Enghsh, under 
-Edward 11. It resulted in the total defeat of the EngUsh. 



BRUCE AND THE ABBOT, 99 

By oppression's woes and pains! 
By our sons in servile chains! 
We will drain our dearest veins, 
But they shall be free! 

Lay the proud usurpers low ! 
Tyrants fall in every foe ! 
Liberty 's in every blow! — 
Let us do or die ! 

Robert Burns*. 



BBUCE AND THE ABBOT.i 

The Abbot on the threshold stood, 
And in his hand the holy rood. 
Then, cloaking hate with fiery zeal, 
Proud Lorn first answered the appeal: 

*' Thou comest, O holy man, 
True sons of blessed Church to greet, 
But little deeming^ here to meet 

A wretch, beneath the ban 
Of Pope and Church, for murder done 
E'en on the sacred altar stone! 
Well may'st thou wonder we should know 
Such miscreant here, nor lay him low, 
• Or dream of greeting, peace, or truce. 
With excommunicated Bruce ! 
Yet well I grant to end debate. 
Thy sainted voice decide his fate." 

1 This is an extract from the Lord of the Isles, one of Scott* s 
longer poems. 



100 BALLADS AND LYRICS. 

The Abbot seemed with eye severe 

The hardy chieftain's speech to hear; { 

Then on King Kobert turned the monk, — 

But twice his couraore came and sunk, 

Confronted with the hero's look ; 

Twice fell his eye^ his accents shook. 

Like man by prodigy amazed, 

Upon the King the Abbot gazed ; 

Then o'er his pallid features glance 

Convulsions of ecstatic trance ; 

His breathing came more thick and fast, 

And from his pale blue eyes were cast 

Stran2:e ravs of wild and wanderinor liaht: 

Uprise his locks of silver white, 

Flushed is his brow; through every vein 

In azure tide the currents strain, 

And undistinguished accents broke 

The awful silence ere he spoke. 

** De Bruce ! I rose with purpose dread 
To speak my curse upon thy head, 
And give thee as an outcast o'er 
To him who burns to shed thv orore ; 
But, like the Midianite of old. 
Who stood on Zophim. Heaven-controlled. 
I feel within mine aged breast 
A power that will not be repressed ; 
It prompts my voice, it swells my veins. 
It burns, it maddens, it constrains! 
De Bruce, thy sacrilegious blow 
Hath at God's altar slain thy foe: 
Overmastered yet by high behest, 
I bless thee, and thou shalt be blessed! " 
He spoke, and o'er the astonished throng 
Was silence, awful, deep, and long. 



)> 



Sir Waltp:r Scott.^ 

1 Sir Walter Scott, the greatest, perhaps, of all modern 
English writers, was the son of Walter Scott, a writer to the 
Signet^ and was born in Edinburgh in 1771. Although his 
health in childhood was delicate, he displayed extraordinary 
talents at a very early age. He was educated at the high 
school and University of Edinburgh, was admitted to the bar, 
^indtield several profitable and important legal appointments 
He was married in 1797, and soon after published his firs! 



BRUCE AND THE ^ ABBOT. 101 | 

Again that light has fired his eye, 

Ao-ain his form swells bold and hio;h, 

The broken voice of agje is oone, 

'T is vigorous manhood's lofty tone: 

Thrice vanquished on the battle plain, — 

Thy followers slaughtered, fled, or ta'en, — 

A hunted wanderer on the wild, 

On foreig^n shores a man exiled, 

Disowned, deserted, and distressed, — 

I bless thee, and thou shalt be blessed! 

Blessed in the hall and in the field. 

Under the mantle as the shield. 

Avenger of thy country's shame. 

Restorer of her injured fame. 

Blessed in thy sceptre and thy sword, — 

De Bruce, fair Scotland's rightful lord, 

Blessed in thy deeds and in thy fame. 

What lengthened honors wait thy namel 

In distant ages, sire to son 

Shall tell thy tale of freedom won, 

And teach his infants, in the use 

Of earliest speech, to falter Bruce. 

Go, then, triumphant ! sweep along 

Thy course, the theme of many a song! 

The Power, whose dictates swell my breast, 

Hath blessed thee, and thou shalt be blessed! 



102 BALLADS AND LYRICS, 



CLAUD HALCRO'S SONG. 

Farewell to Nortlimaven, 

Gray Hillswicke, farewell! 
To the calms of thy haven, 

The storms on thy fell ; 
To each breeze that can vary 

The mood of thy main, 
And to thee, bonny Mary! 

We meet not as-ain. 



o 



Farewell the wild ferry. 

Which Hacon could brave, 

When the peaks of the Skerry 
Were white in the wave. 



volume of poems and translations. These were followed by 
his longer poems, such as Marmion and the Lady of the Lake, 
which gave him a wide reputation. In 1814 he published, anon- 
ymously, Waverley, the first of the great series of novels bear- 
ing that name, and which gave him -world-wide renown and 
a foremost place in English literature, and which have never 
been surpassed. He wrote much and well on other subjects 
also, and was a man of great learning in our older literature. 
He had an almost superhuman power of production, and made 
vast sums by his novels. But the money thus gained was 
wasted, and a partnership with his publishers ended in finan- 
cial ruin. He finally extricated himself from his most press- 
ing difficulties, but never regained his wealth. He died in 
1832. No biographical paragraph can do justice to his vast 
and versatile genius, or even give any idea of it. In poetry 
and romance alike he achieved a success which it is given to 
few men to attain in either. The lyrics in this collection are 
taken from the longer poems, and from the novels through 
which they were scattered with a lavish hand. They are 
among the most beautiful in the whole range of English litera* 
ture. 




" Farewell to North-maven 

Gray Hillswicke, farewell ! " See p. 102. 



SONG OF HAROLD HARFAGEK 103 

There 's a maid may look over 

These wild waves in vain, 
For the skiff of her lover — 

He comes not again! 

The vows thou hast broke, 

On the wild currents fling them ; 
On the quicksand and rock 

Let the mermaidens sing them ; 
New sweetness they '11 give her 

Bewildering strain; 
But there 's one who will never 

Believe them again. 

O were there an island, 

Thougli ever so wild, 
Where woman could smile, and 

No man be beo-uiled — 
Too tempting a snare 

To poor mortals were given; 
And the hope would fix there, 

That should anchor in heaven. 

Sir Walter Scott. 

The Pirate, 



THE SONG OF HAROLD HARFAGER.i 

The sun is rising dimly red, 
The wind is wailing low and dread ; 
From his cliff the eao^le sallies, 
Leaves the wolf his darksome valleys; 

- Harold Harfager or Harold Fair Hair, the most famous of 
the early kings of Norway, 885-894. 



T 



104 BALLADS AXD LYRICS. 

In the mist the ravens hover, 
Peep the wild dogs from the cover, 
Screaming, croaking, baying, yelling. 
Each in his wild accents telling, 
" Soon we ft^asr on dead and dyinsr. 
Fair-haired Harold's flag is flying." 

Many a crest on air is streaming, \ 

Manv a helmet darklv orleaminor, % 

Many an arm the axe uprears, 
Doomed to hew the wood of spears. 

All along the crowded ranks j 

Horses nei<rh and armor clanks: \ 

Chiefs are shouting, clarions rinsring, 
Louder still the bards are singing : 
*• Gather, footmen! gather, horsemen I 
To the field, ye valiant Xorsemen! 

•' Halt ye not for food or slumber, 
View not vantage, count not number; 

Jolly reaf>ers. forward still. \ 

Grow the crop on vale or hill, * 

Thick or scattered, stiff or lithe, 
It shall down before the scythe. 
Forward with vour sickles bricrht, 

Reap the harvest of the fight : . 

Onward, footmen I onward, horsemen! \ 

To the charge,ye gallant Norsemen! 

Fatal choosers of the Slaughter, 

O'er you hovers Odin's daughter; 

Hear the choice she spreads before ye, — 

Victory, and wealth, and glory; 

Or old Valhalla's roaring hail. 

Her ever-circling mead and ale, 



HUNTING SONG. 105 

Where for eternity unite 
The joys of wassail and of fight. 
Headlong forward, foot and horsemen, 
Charofe and fiaht, and die like Norsemen!" 
Sir Walter Scott. 

The Pirate. 



HUNTING SONG. 



Waken, lords and ladies gay, 

On the mountain dawns the day, 

All the jolly chase is here, 

With hawk, and horse, and hunting spear 

Hounds are in their couples yelling. 

Hawks are whistlino^ horns are knellincr 

Merrily, merrily, mingle they, 

Waken, lords and ladies gay." 

Waken, lords and ladies gay. 

The mist has left the mountain gray, 

Springlets in the dawn are steaming. 

Diamonds on the brake are oleaminor; 

And foresters have busy been. 

To track the buck in thicket green ; 

Now we come to chant our lay, 

Waken, lords and ladies gay." 

Waken, lords and ladies gay, 
To the greenwood haste away; 
We can show you where he lies. 
Fleet of foot, and tall of size; 
We can show the marks he made, 
When 'gainst the oak his antlers traysd 



106 BALLADS AXD LYRICS. 

You shall see him brought to bay, 
" Waken, lords aud ladies gay." 

Louder, louder chant the lay, 

Waken, lords and ladies gay ! 

Tell them youth, and mirth, and glee 

Run a course as well as we; 

Time, stern huntsman I who can balk, 

Staunch as hound, and fleet as hawk; 

Think of this, and rise with day. 

Gentle lords and ladies gay. 

Sir Walter Scott, 



SONG: COUNTY GUY. 

Ah I County Guy, the hour is nigh, 

The sun has left the lea, 
The orange-flower perfumes the bower, 

The breeze is on the sea. 
The lark, his lay who trilled all day. 

Sits hushed his partner nigh ; 
Breeze, bird, and flower confess the hour. 

But where is County Guy? 

The village maid steals through the shade, 

Her shepherd's suit to hear; 
To beauty shy, by lattice high, 

Sings high-born Cavalier. 
The star of Love, all stars above. 

Now reigns o'er earth and sky; 
And high and low the influence know — 

But where is County Guy? 

Sir Walter Scott. 

Quentin Duncard 



MACPHERSON'S FAREWELL. 107 



MACPHERSON'S FAREWELL. 

Farewell, ye dungeons dark and strong, 

The wretch's destinie ! 
Macpherson's time will not be long 
On yonder gallows-tree. 

Sae rantingly, sae wantonly, 

Sae dauntingly gaed he; 
He play'd a spring, and danc'd it round, 
Below the gallows-tree. 

O, what is death but parting breath? 

On many a bloody plain 
I 've dar'd his face, and in this place 

I scorn him yet again I 

Untie these bands from off my hands, 

And bring to me my sword; 
And there 's no a man in all Scotland, 

But I '11 brave him at a word. 

I He liv'd a life of sturt and strife ; 

I die by treacherie: 
It burns my heart I must depart, 

And not aveno-M be. 

Now farewell lio;ht,thou sunshine brioht. 

And all beneath the sky ! 
May coward shame distain his name, 
The wretch that dares not die! 
Sae rantingly, sae wantonly, etc. 

Robert Burns. 



108 BALLADS AND LYRICS. 



THE POPLAR FIELD. 

The poplars are fell'd, farewell to the shade 
And the whispering sound of the cool colonnade; 
The winds play no longer and sing in the leaves, 
Nor Ouse on his bosom their imao-e receives. 

Twelve years have elapsed since I last took a view 
Of DQ^ favorite field, and the bank where they grew 
And now in the grass behold they are laid, 
And the tree is my seat that once lent me a shade. 



7 



The blackbird has fled to another retreat 
Where the hazels afford him a screen from the heat ; 
And the scene where his melody charm 'd me before 
Resounds with his sweet- flowing ditty no more. 

My fugitive years are all hasting away, 

AndT must erelong lie as lowly as they. 

With a turf on my breast and a stone at my head 

Ere another such g-rove shall arise in its stead. 

'T is a sight to engage me, if anything can, 
To muse on the perishing pleasures of man; 
Short-lived as we are, our enjoyments, I see, 
Have a still shorter date, and die sooner than we. 

•AYlLLIAM COWPER. 



A WISH. 

]\IiXE be a cot beside the hill ; 
A bee -hive's hum shall soothe my ear; 
A willowy brook, that turns a mill, 
With many a fall shall linger near. 



THE BANKS 0' DOON. 109 

The swallow, oft, beneath my thatch 
Shall twitter from her clay- built nest; 
Oft shall the pilgrm lift the latch, 
And share my meal, a welcome guest. 

Around my ivied porch shall spring 
Each fragrant flower that drinks the dew ; 
And Lucy, at her wheel, shall sing 
In russet gown and apron blue. 

The villao;e church anion gj the trees, 
Where first our marriaoe vows were given, 
With merry peals shall swell the breeze 
And point with taper spire to Heaven. 

Samuel Rogers. 



THE BANKS O' DOON. 

I. 

Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon, 

How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair; 
How can ye chant, ye little birds. 

And I sae weary, fu' o' care! 
Thou 'It break my heart, thou warbling bird, 

That wantons thro' the flowering thorn : 
Thou minds me o* departed joys. 

Departed — never to return ! 

II. 

Aft hae I rov'd by bonnie Doon, 

To see the rose and woodbine twine; 

And ilka bird sang o' its luve. 
And fondly sae did I o' mine. 



110 BALLADS AXD LYRICS. 

Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a ro>e, 
Fu' sweet upon its thorny tree; 

And my fause luver stole my rose, 
But, ah I he left the thorn wi' me. 

Robert BuRxa. 



EYEXIXG. 

The sun upon the lake is low, 

The wild birds hush their song, 
The hills have evening's deepest glow, 

Yet Leonard tarries long. 
Xow all whom varied toil and care 

From home and love divide, 
In the calm sunset may repair 

Each to the loved one's side. 

The noble dame on turret high, 

Who waits her gallant knight, 
Looks to the western beam to spy 

The llash of armor bright. 
The village maid, with hand on b:ow 

The level ray to shade. 
Upon the footpath watches now 

For Colin's darkening plaid. 

Now to their mates the wild swans row, 

By day they swam apart, 
And to the thicket wanders slow 

The hind beside the hart. 
The woodlark at his partner's side 

Twitters his closing song — 
All meet whom day and care divide, 

But Leonard tarries long ! 

Sib Walter Scott. 




The sun upon the lake is low." See p. no. 



SONG. Ill 



SONG. 

There is mist on the mountain and night on the vale, 
But more dark is the sleep of the sons of the Gael. 
A stranjrer commanded — it sunk on the land, 
It has frozen each heart, and benumbed every hand! 

The dirk and the target lie sordid with dust, 
The bloodless claymore is but reddened with rust: 
On the hill or the glen if a gun should appear, 
It is only to war with the heath-cock or deer. 

The deeds of our sires if our bards should rehearse, 
Let a blush or a blow be the meed of their verse ! 
Be mute every string, and be hushed every tone, 
That shall bid us remember the fame that is flown. 

But the dark hours of night and of slumber are past, 
The morn on our mountains is dawning at last; 
Glenaladale's peaks are illumed with the rays. 
And the streams of Glenfinnan leap bright in the blaze, 

O high-minded Moray ! — the exiled — the dear! 
In the blush of the dawning the Standard uprear! 
Wide, wide to the winds of the north let it fly, 
Like the sun's latest flash when the tempest is nigh; 

Ye sons of the strong, when that dawning shall break. 
Need the harp of the aged remind you to wake? 
That dawn never beamed on your forefathers' eye, 
But it roused each high chieftain to vanquish or die. 

sprung from the Kings who in Islay kept state, 
Proud chiefs of Clan-Ranald, Glengary, and SleatI 



mmm 



112 BALLADS AXD LYRICS, 

Combine like three streams from one mountain of snow, 
And resistless in union rusli down on the foe I 



True son ot Sir Evan, undaunted Lochiel, 
Place thy targe on thy shoulder and burnish thy steel ! 
Rough Keppoch. c:ive breath to thy bugle's bold swell, 
Till far Coryarrick resound to the knell ! 

Stern son of Lord Kenneth, high chief of Kintail, 
Let the stag in thy standard bound wild in the gale I 
May the race of Clan-Gillian, the fearless and free, 
Remember Glenlivet, Harlaw, and Dundee I 

Let the clan of gray Fingon. whose offspring has givcD 
Such heroes to earth, and such martyrs to heaven, 
Unite with the race of renowned Rori More, 
To launch the Ions: galley, and stretch to the oarl- 

How Mac-Shimei will joy when their chief shall display 
The yew-crested bonnet o'er tresses of gray! 
How the race of Avronged Alpine and murdered Glencoe 
Shall shout for revengre when they pour on the foe I 

Ye sons of brown Dermid. who slew the wild boar, 

Resume the pure faith of the great Callum-Morel 

Mac-Neil of the Islands, and ^loy of the Lake, 

For honor, for freedom, for vengeance awake! 

\ 

Awake on vour hills, on vour islands awake ! 
Brave sons of the mountain, the frith, and the lakrl 
'Tis the bugle — but not for the chase is the call; 
'Tis the pibroch's shrill summons — but not to the hall 

T is the summons of heroes for conquest or death. 
When the banners are blazing on mountain and heath; 



GLENARA. 113 

They call to the diik, the claymore, and the targe, 
To the march and the muster, the line and the charge. 

Be the brand of each chieftain like Fin's in his ire I 
May the blood through his veins flow like currents of 

firt'! 
Burst the base foreign yoke as your sires did of yore! 
Or die, like your sires, and endure it no more! 

Sir Walter Scott. 

Waverley. 



GLENAKA. 

O HEARD ye yon pibroch sound sad in the gale. 
Where a band cometh slowly with weeping and wail ? 
'T is the chief of Glenara laments for his dear; 
And her sire, and the people, are call'd to her bier. 

Glenara came first with the mourners and shroud ; 
Her kinsmen they follow'd, but mourned not aloud: 
Their plaids all their bosoms were folded around: 
They march'd all in silence, — they looked on the 
ground. 

In silence they reach'd over mountain and moor. 
To a heath, where the oak-tree grew lonely and hoar: 
'* Now here let us place the gray stone of her cairn; 
Why speak ye no word ? " said Glenara the stern. 

'^ And tell me, 1 charge you! ye clan of my spouse, 
Why fold ye your mantles? why cloud ye your brows? ** 
So spake the rude chieftain: no answer is made, 
But each mantle unfolding a dagger display 'd. 
8 



114 BALLADS AND LYRICS. 

"• I dreamt of my lady, I dreamt of her shroud/' 
Cried a voice from the kinsmen, all wrathful and loud: 
" And empty that shroud and that coffin did seem: 
Glenara! Glenara! now read me my dream! " 

O! pale grew the cheek of that chieftain, I ween. 
When the shroud was unclosed, and no lady was seen; 
When a voice from the kinsmen spoke louder in scorn, 
^T was the youth who had loved the fair Ellen of 
Lorn : 

" I dreamt of my lady, I dreamt of her grief, 
I dreamt that her lord was a barbarous chief: 
On a rock of the ocean fair Ellen did seem; 
Glenara! Glenara! now read me my dream! *' 

In dust, low the traitor has knelt to the ground, 
And the desert reveal'd where his lady was found ; 
From a rock of the ocean that beauty is borne, — 
Now joy to the house of fair Ellen of Lorn! 

Thomas Campbell. ^ 

1 Thomas Campbell, born in Glasgow in 1777, graduated at 
the university of his native town, and made an early reputation 
as a poet by the pubhcation of his Pleasures of Eojje. After 
a journey on the Continent, where he witnessed the battle of 
Hoheulinden, he -returned to London, where he passed the rest of 
his life. His prose writings, Avhich were extensive and profita- 
ble, and gained for him a pension from the government, are 
now forgotten, but liis lyric poetry holds a high place. He died 
in 1844. 



LOCHINVAR. 115 



LOCHINYAR. 

O, YOUNG Lochinvar is come out of the West, 
Through all the wide border his steed was the best; 
And save his good broadsword lie weapons had none. 
He rode all unarmed, and he rode all alone. 
So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war, 
There never was knio-ht like the voungr Lochinvar. 

He staid not for brake, and he stopped not for stone. 
He swam the Eske river where ford there was none; 
But, ere he alighted at Netherby gate. 
The bride had consented, the gallant came late : 
For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war, 
Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar. 

So boldly he entered the Netherby hall, 

Among bride' s-men, and kinsmen, and brothers and 

all: 
Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his 

sword 
(For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word) , 
*' O come ye in peace here, or come ye in war, 
Or to dance at our bridal, vouno^ Lord Lochinvar? " 

*'I long woo'd your daughter, my suit you denied; 
Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide; 
And now am I come, with this lost love of mine. 
To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine. 
There are maidens in Scotland, more lovely by far, 
That would gladly be bride to the }'oung Lochin- 



The bride kissed the goblet; the knight took it up. 
He quaffed off the wine, and he threw down the cup. 



116 BALLADS AND LYRICS. 

She looked down to blush, and she looked up to 

sigh, 
With a smile on her lips, and a tear in her eye. 
He took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar, — 
*' !N'ow tread we a measure ! '' said young Lochinvar. 

So stately his form, and so lovely his face. 
That never a hall such a o^alliard did g^race: 
While her mother did fret, and her father did fume, 
And the bride oTOom stood danolina his bonnet and 

plume; 
And the bride-maidens whispered, ^' 'T were better 

by far 
To have matched our fair cousin with vounor Loch- 

invar." 

One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear. 
When thev reached the hall-door, and the charo-er 

stood near; 
So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung. 
So light to the saddle before her he sprung ! 
^' She is won! we are gone, over bank, bush, and 

scaur ; 
They '11 have fleet steeds that follow," quoth young 

Lochinvar. 

There was mounting 'mong Graemes of the Netherby 

clan; 
Forsters. Fen wicks, and Mus^raves, thev rode and 

they ran: 
There was racing and chasing, on Cannobie Lee, 
But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see. 
So daring in love, and so dauntless in war, 
Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar?* 

Sir Waltkk Scott. 



LORD ULLIN'S DAUGHTER. 117 



** His Norsemen liard behind us ride; 
Should they our steps discover, 
Then who will cheer my bonny bride 
When they have slain her lover? '' 

Out spoke the hardy Highland wight, 
*' I '11 go, my chief — I 'm ready : 

It is not for your silver bright. 
But for your winsome lady : 

'* And by my word! the bonny bird 
In danger shall not tarry ; 
So, though the waves are raging white, 
I 'U row you o'er the ferry." 



By this the storm grew loud apace, 
The water- wraith ^ was shriekinor 
1 The evil spirit of the waters. 



LORD ULLIN'S DAUGHTER. 

A CHIEFTAIN, to the Highlands bound, 

Cries, " Boatman, do not tarry ! 
And I '11 give thee a silver pound. 

To row us o'er the ferry.'' 

" Now who be ye, would cross Lochgyle, 

This dark and stormy water? " 
** O I 'm the chief of Ulva's isle, ^ ] 

And this Lord Ullin's daughter. | 

** And fast before her father's men 
Three days we 've fled together. 
For should he find us in the glen, 

My blood would stain the heather. | 



118 BALLADS AXD LYRICS. 

And in the scowl of heaven each face 
Grew dark as they were speaking. 

But still as wilder blew the wind. 
And as the night grew drearer, 

Adown the glen rode armed men, 
Their trampling sounded nearer. 

** O haste thee, haste I '' the lady cries, 
'' Though tempests round us gather; 
I '11 meet the raorinor of the skies, 
But not an anorrv father.'* 

The boat has left a stormy land, 

A stormy sea before her, — 
When, O! too strong for human hand, 

The tempest gathered o'er her. 

And still they row'd amidst the roar 

Of waters fast prevailing : 
Lord Ullin reach'd that fatal shore, 

His wrath was chanored to wailinir. 

For sore dismayed, through storm and shade. 

His child he did discover : 
One lovely hand she stretched for aid, 

And one was round her lover. 

** Come back ! come back ! " he cried in grief, 
*' Across this stormy water : 
And I '11 fororive vour Hio^hland chief, 
Mv daughter ! — O mv daughter I " 



'T was vain; the loud waves lashed the shore. 
Return or aid preventing : 



THE CRUSADERS RETURN. 119 

The waters wild went o'er his child, — 
And he was left lamenting. 

Thomas Campbell. 



THE CRUSADER'S RETURN". 

I. 

High deeds achieved of knightly fame, 
From Palestine the champion came ; 
The cross upon his shoidders borne 
Battle and blast had dimmed and torn ; 
Each dint upon his battered shield 
Was token of a f oughten field ; 
And thus, beneath his lady's bower, 
He suno;, as fell the twilio;ht hour: 

II. 

* Joy to the fair ! — thy knight behold, 
Returned from yonder land of gold; 
No wealth he brings, nor wealth can need, 
Save his good arms and battle-steed ; 
His spurs to dash against a foe, 
His lance and sword to lay him low; 
Such all the trophies of his toil, 
Such — and the hope of Tekla's smile I 

III. 

'* Joy to the fair! whose constant knight 
Her favor fired to feats of mio-ht ! 
Unnoted shall she not remain 
Where meet the bright and noble train; 
Minstrel shall sing, and herald tell — 

^Mark yonder maid of beauty well, 




^^^ssa^ 



st--i-^--35w»,if-r 



120 BALLADS AND LYRICS. 

'Tis she for whose bright eyes vas won 
The listed field of Ascalon! 

IV. 

" * Note well her smile ! — it edged the blade 
Which fifty wives to widows made, 
When, vain his strength and Mahound's spell, 
Iconium's turbaned Soldan fell. 
Seest thou her locks, whose sunny glow 
Half shows, half shades, her neck of snow? 
Twines not of them one golden thread, 
But for its sake a Paynim bled I ' 

V. 

*^ Joy to the fair! — My name unknown. 
Each deed, and all its praise, thine own; 
Then, O ! unbar this churlish gate, 

The nig^ht-dew falls, the hour is late. - 

Inured to Syria's glowing breath, ? 

I feel the north breeze chill as death : I 

Let grateful love quell maiden shame, : 

And grant him bliss who brings thee fame." 

Sir Waltepw Scott. 

Ivanhoe. 



ELSPETH'S BALLAD. 



Now haud your tongue, baith wife and carle, 

And listen great and sma'. 
And I will sing of Glenallan's Earl 

That fouojht on the red Harlaw. 

The cronach's cried on Bennachie, 
And doun the Don and a'. 



ELSPETH'S BALLAD. 121 

And hieland and lawland may mournfu' be 
For the sair field of Harlaw. 

They saddled a hundred milk-white steeds, 
They hae bridled a hundred black, 

With a chafron of steel on each horse's head, 
And a good knight upon his back. 

They hadna ridden a mile, a mile, 

A mile but barely ten, 
When Donald came branking down the brae 

AVi' twenty thousand men. 

Their tartans they were waving wide, 
Their g-laives were o-lancino; clear, 

The pibrochs rung frae side to side, 
Would deafen ve to hear. 

The great Earl in his stirrups stood, 
That Highland host to see: 
" Now here a knig^ht that 's stout and orood 
May prove a jeopardie: 

" What wouldst thou do, my squire so gay, 
That rides beside my rein, — 
Were ye Glenallan's Earl the day, 
And I were Koland Cheyne ? 



( ; 



To turn the rein were sin and shame, 
To fight were wondrous peril, — 

What would ye do now, Roland Cheyne, 
Were ye Glenallan's Earl? " 

Were I Glenallan's Earl this tide, 
And ye were Roland Cheyne, 



r 



122 BALLADS AND LYRICS. 

The spur should be in my horse's side, 
And the bridle upon his mane. 

'* If they hae twenty thousand blades, 
And we twice ten times ten, 
Yet they hae but their tartan plaids, 
And we are mail-clad men. 

" My horse shall ride through ranks sae rude, 
As through the moorland fern, — 
Then ne'er let the gentle Norman blude 
Grow eauld for Highland kerne." 

Sir Walter Scott. 

The Antiquary, 



HOHENLINDEN.i 

On Linden, when the sun was low, 
All bloodless lay the untrodden snow, 
And dark as winter was the flow 
Of Iser, rolling rapidly. 

But Linden saw another sight, 
When the drum beat, at dead of night, 
Commandino^ fires of death to lio;ht 
The darkness of her scenery. 

By torch and trumpet fast array *d. 
Each horseman drew his battle-blade, 

1 The battle of Hohenlindeii was fought between the French 
and Bavarians, under Moreau, and the Austrians, under the 
Archduke John, December 3, 1800, and resulted in the defeat 
of the Austrians. 



HOHENLINDEN. 123 

And furious every charger neigh'd, 
To join the dreadful revelry. 

Then shook the hills with thunder riven, 
Then rush'd the steed to battle driven, 
And louder than the bolts of heaven, 
Far flash'd the red artillery. 

But redder yet that light shall glow. 
On Linden's hills of stained snow, 
And bloodier yet the torrent flow 
Of Iser, rolling rapidly. 

'T is morn, but scarce yon level sun 
Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun, 
Where furious Frank, and fiery Hun, 
Shout in their sulph'rous canopy. 

The combat deepens. On, ye brave. 
Who rush to glory, or the grave ! 
Wave, Munich I all thy banners wave! 
And charge with all thy chivalry ! 

Few, few shall part where many meet ! 
The snow shall be their windings-sheet, 
And every turf beneath their feet 
Shall be a soldier's sepulchre. 

Thomas Campbell. 



124 BALLADS AND LYRICS. 



SONG: THE CAVALIER. 

While the dawn on the mountain was misty and gray, 
My true love has mounted his steed and away, 
Over hill, over valley, o'er dale and o'er down; 
Heaven shield the brave orallant that fio^hts for the 
crown! 

He has doffed the silk doublet the breast-plate to 

bear, 
He has placed the steel-cap o'er his long flowing hair, 
From his belt to his stirrup his broadsword hangs 

down. 
Heaven shield the brave gallant that fights for the 

crown! 

For the rio-hts of fair Eno;land that broadsword he 

draws. 
Her king is his leader, her church is his cause; 
His watch-word is honor, his pay is renown, — 
God strike with the gallant that strikes for the crown! 

They may boast of their Fairfax, their Waller, and 

all 
The roundheaded rebels of Westminster-hall; 
But tell these bold traitors of London's proud town, 
That the spears of the north have encircled the crown. 

There 's Derby and Cavendish, dread of their foes; 

There 's Erin's high Ormond, and Scotland's Mont- 
rose! 

Would you match the base Skippon, and Massy, and 
Brown, 

With the barons of Enirland that fifrht for the crown? 




liiing the 



bowl which you boast." Seep.xa.. 



GLEE FOR KING CHARLES. 12rj 

Now joy to the crest of the brave cavalier! 
Be his banner unconquered, resistless his spear, 
Till in peace and in triumph his toils he may drown, 
In a pledge to fair England, her church, and her crown ! 

Sir Walter Scott. 



GLEE FOR KING CHARLES. 

Bring the bowl which you boast, 

Fill it up to the brim ; 
'T is to him we love most. 

And to all who love him. 
Brave gallants, stand up, 

And avaunt, ye base carles! 
Were there death in the cup, 

Here 's a Health to Kino; Charles I 

Though he wanders through dangers, 

Unaided, unknown. 
Dependent on strangers, 

Estranged from his own; 
Though 't is under our breath, 

Amidst forfeits and perils. 
Here 's to honor and faith. 

And a Health to Kino; Charles! 

Let such honors abound 

As the time can afford, 
Tlie knee on the ground, 

And the hand on the sword ; 
But the time sliall come round, 

Wlu^n, 'mid Lords, Dukes, and Earls, 



126 BALLADS AXD LYRICS. 

The loud trumpet shall sound, 

Here 's a Health to Kinp^ Charles! 

Sir Walter Scott. 

IVoodstocIc. 



THE SOLDIER'S DREAM. 

Our bugles sang truce — for the night-cloud had 
lower'd, 

And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky; 
And thousands had sunk on the ground overpowered, 

The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die. 

"\Mien reposing that night on my pallet of straw, 
By the wolf-scaring fagot that guarded the slain, 

At the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw, 
And thrice ere the mornino- I dreamt it again. 

Methouorht from the battle-field's dreadful arrav, 
Far, far I had roam VI on a desolate track ; 

'T was autumn, — and sunshine arose on the way 
To the home of my fathers, that welcomed me back. 

I flew to the pleasant fields traversed so oft 

In life's morning march, when my bosom was young; 

I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft. 

And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers 



Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I swore. 
From my home and my weeping friends never to 
part; 



ROSABELLE. 127 

My little ones kiss'd me a thousand times o'er, .; 

And my wife sobb'd aloud in her fulness of heart. j 

1 

Stay, stay with us — rest, thou art weary and worn; j 

And fain was their war-broken soldier to stay ; — 

But sorrow return 'd with the dawning of morn, 
And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away. 

Thomas Campbell. 



ROSABELLE. 

O LiSTEX, listen, ladies gay! 

No haughty feat of arms I tell; 
Soft is the note, and sad the lay. 

That mourns the lovely Kosabelle. 

" Moor, moor the barge, ye gallant crew! 
And, gentle lady, deign to stay! 
Rest thee in Castle Ravensheuch, 
Nor tempt the stormy firth to-day. 

** The blackeninor wave is edored with white: 
To inch and rock the sea-mews fly; 
The fishers have heard the water- sprite, 
Whose screams forebode that wreck is niijh, 

** Last nio^ht the shifted seer did view 

A wet shroud swathed round lady gay; 
Then stay thee, Fair, in Ravensheuch: 
AVhy cross the gloomy firth to-day? " 

" 'T is not because Lord Lindesay's heir 
To-night at Roslin leads the ball, 



128 BALLADS AND LYRICS. 

But that my lady-mother there 
Sits lonely in her castle-hall. 

** 'Tis not because the ring they ride, 
And Lindesay at the ring rides well, 
But that my sire the wine will chide, 
Jf 'tis not filled by Rosabelle." 

O'er Roslin all that dreary night 

A wondrous blaze was seen to gleam: 

'Twas broader than the watch-fire's light, 
And redder than the brio-ht moonbeam. 

It glared on Roslin' s castled rock. 
It ruddied all the copse-wood glen; 

'Twas seen from Dryden's groves of oak, 
And seen from caverned Hawthornden. 

Seemed all on fire that chapel proud, 
Where Roslin's chiefs uncoffined lie; 

Each baron, for a sable shroud, 
Sheathed in his iron panoply. 

Seemed all on fire, within, around, 
Deep sacristry and altar's pale: 

Shone every pillar foliage-bound, 
And glimmered all the dead men's mail. 

Blazed battlement and pinnet high. 

Blazed every rose- carved buttress fair, - 

So still they blaze, when fate is nigh 
The lordly line of high St. Clair. 

There are twenty of Roslin's barons bold 
Lie buried within that proud chapelle: 



PIBROCH OF DONUIL DHU. 129 

Each one the holy vault doth hold, — 
But the sea holds lovely B-osabelle ! 

And each St. Clah was buried there, 
With candle, with book, and with knell; 

But the sea-caves runo;, and the wild winds subs: 
The dirge of lovely Rosabelle. 

Sir Walter Scott. 



PIBROCH OF DONUIL DHU. 

Pibroch of Donuil Dhu, 

Pibroch of Donuil, 
Wake thy wild voice anew, 

Summon Clan-Conuil. 
Come away, come away, 

Hark to the summons! 
Come in your war array, 

Gentles and commons. 

Come from deep glen, and 

From mountain so rocky, 
The war-pipe and pennon 

Are at Inverlochy : 
Come every hill-plaid, and 

True heart that wears one, 
Come every steel blade, and 

Strono; hand that bears one. 

Leave untended the herd. 
The flock without shelter; 

Leave the corpse uninterr'd, 
The bride at the altar; 
9 



130 BALLADS AND LYRICS. 

Leave the deer, leave the steer, 
c , Leave nets and barges; 

f Come with your fiorhtincr aear, 

: Broadswords and tarores. 

5 

* Come as the winds come, when 

\ Forests are rended; 

\ Come as the waves come, when 

Xavies are stranded; 
Faster come, faster come, 

Faster and faster, 
Chief, vassal, page, and groom, 
Tenant and master. 



Fast they come, fast they come ; 
j See how they gather! 

j AVide waves the eagle plume, 

J Blended with heather. 

I Cast your plaids, draw your blades, 

« Forward each man set ! 

* Pibroch of Donuil Dhu, 

i Knell for the onset I 

Sir Walter Scott. 



LOVE OF COUNTRY.i 



Breathes there the man, with soul so dead. 
Who never to himself hath said, 
\ This is my own, my native land I 

Whose heart hath ne'er within him burned, 
As home his footsteps he hath turned, 

From wandering: on a foreig^n strand? 
•1 This is an extract from the Lay of the Last Minstrel, 



M 



LIFE AND DEATH, 131 \ 

\ 

If such there breathe, go, mark him well: * 

For him no minstrel raptures swell; i 

High thoitgh his titles, proud his name, : 

Boundless his wealth as wish can claim; 1 

Despite those titles, power, and pelf, j 

The wretch, concentred all in self, I 

Living, shall forfeit fair renown, \ 

And, doubly dying, shall go down | 

To the vile dust, from whence he sprung, { 

Unwept, unhonored, and unsung. 

Sir Walter Scott. 



LIFE AND DEATH. 

Life ! I know not what thou art, 
But know that thou and I must part; 
And when, or how, or where we met 
I own to me 's a secret yet. 

Life! we 've been Ions; togcether 
Through pleasant and through cloudy weather; 
'T is hard to part when friends are dear, — 
Perhaps 't will cost a sigh, a tear; 
Then steal away, give little warning, 

Choose thine own time ; 
Say not Good Night, — but in some brighter clime 

Bid me Good Mornino;. 

Anna L^titia Barbauld.i 

1 Anna L^titia Barbauld, the daughter of the Eev. John 
Aikin, was born in 1743, and married in 1774 to the Rev. 
Rochemont Barbauld, a dissenting minister. She was a prolific 
writer, chiefly for children and on educational and political sub- 
jects. Some of her poems have considerable merit. She died in 
1825. 



132 BALLADS AND LYRICS. 



THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE, AT 
CORUNNA.i 

Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, 
As his corpse to the ramparts we hurried; 

Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot 
O'er the crrave where our hero we buried. 

We buried him darkly at dead of night, 

The sods with our bayonets turning; 
By the struggling moonbeam's misty light 

And the lantern dimly burning. 

No useless coffin enclosed his breast. 

Not in sheet nor in shroud we wound him; 

But he lay like a warrior taking his rest 
With his martial cloak around him. 

Few and short were the prayers we said. 

And we spoke not a word of sorrow, 
But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead, 

And we bitterly thought of the morrow. 

We thought as we hollow'd his narrow bed 

And smoothed down his lonely pillow, 
That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his 
head, 

And we far away on the billow I 

1 The British army, under Sir John Moore, entered Spain in 
1808. They were forced to retreat before the French to Corunna, 
w'here they made a gallant stand, and after hard hf^hting re- 
pulsed the French, January 16, 1809. Sir John Moore was fa- 
tally wounded in this battle and buried the same night. The 
next day the army was safely embarked on board the British 
ieet. 



BOAT SONG. 133 

Lightly they '11 talk of the spirit that 's gone, 
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him, — 

But little he '11 reck if they let him sleep on 
In the o^rave where a Briton has laid him. 

But half of our heavy task was done 

When the clock struck the hour for retiring; 

And we heard the distant and random gun 
That the foe was sullenly firing. 

Slowly and sadly we laid him down, 

From the field of his fame fresh and gory; 

We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone, — 
But we left him alone with his glory. 

Charles Wolfe.^ 



BOAT SONG. 



Hail to the chief who in triumph advances ! 

Honored and blessed be the evergreen pine! 
Long may the tree in his banner that glances 
Flourish, the shelter and grace of our line! 
Heaven send it happy dew. 
Earth lend it sap anew, 
Gayly to bourgeon, and broadly to grow ; 
While every highland glen 
Sends our shout back again, 
'* Roderigh Yich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe! " 

1 Charles Wolfe, a connection of General James Wolfe, the 
hero of Quebec, was born in Dublin, 1791, and educated at Dub- 
lin University. He entered the church and became curate of 
Donoughmore. He wrote, besides sermons, various essays and 
Home poetry, but has secured a lasting remembrance by this 
iingle famous poem. He died at Cork in 1823. 



134 BALLADS AND LYRICS. 

Ours is no sapling, chance- sown by the fountain, 

Blooming at Beltane, in winter to fade ; 
When the whirlwind has stripped every leaf on the 
mountain, 
The more shall Clan- Alpine exult in her shade. 
Moored in the rifted rock, 
Proof to the tempest's shock, 
Firmer he roots him the ruder it blow; 

Menteith and Breadalbane, then, 
Echo his praise again, 
" Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe! '' 

Proudly our pibroch has thrilled in Glen Fruin, 

And Bannachar's groans to our slogan replied, 
Glen Luss and Boss-dhu, they are smoking in ruin, 
And the best of Loch-Lomond lie dead on her side. 
Widow and Saxon maid 
Lonor shall lament our aid, 
Think of Clan- Alpine with fear and with wo ; 
Lennox and Leven-glen 
Shake when they hear again, 
'* Roderigh Yich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe ! " 

Row, vassals, row, for the pride of the highlands! 

Stretch to your oars for the evergreen pine! 
that the rose-bud that graces yon islands 
Were wreathed in a garland around him to twine! 
O that some seedling gem. 
Worthy such noble stem. 
Honored and blessed in their shadow might grow! 
Loud should Clan- Alpine then 
Ring from the deepmost glen, 
'* Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe! '* 

Sir Waltkr Scott. 



i 



SEA-SONG. 135 

SEA-SONG. 



A WET sheet and a flowing sea, ^ 

A wind tlint follows fast I 

And fills the wliite and rustling sail f 

And bends the gallant mast; . 

And bends the gallant mast, my boys, i 

While, like the eagle free, [■ 

Away the good ship flies, and leaves « 

Old England on the lee. t 

O for a soft and gentle wind! 

I heard a fair one cry ; 
But <Av(i to me the snorino; breeze, 

And white waves heavinij: hi<]rli; 
And white waves heaving high, my lads, 

The good ship tight and free, — 
The world of waters is our home. 

And merry men are we. 

There 's tempest in yon horned moon, 

And liiihlniiijj: in von cloud ; 
But hark the music, mariners! I 

The wind is piping loud; I 

The wind is pii)ing loud, my boys. 

The lightning flashes free, — 
While the hollow oak our pala(;e is, 

Our heritajje the sea. 

Allan Cunnincjiiam.^ 

1 Allan CuNNiNcnrAivi, born in Scotland in 1785, was tho son 
of a gardener. In 1810 lie removed to liondon, where lie wrote 
for the press, and in 1814 obtained the position of clerk to Sir 
Francis Chantrey, tin; celebrated scul[)tor, with whom he re- 
mained nntil 1841. He wrote romances, some poems of con- 
Bid(!rable l('n<;th, and many beautifid and spirited songs. Ilc- 
died in 1842. 



h 



136 BALLADS AND LYRICS. 



SONG. 

O, Brignal banks are wild and fair, 

And Greta woods are green, 
And you may gather garlands there, 

Would grace a summer queen. 
And as I rode by Dalton-hall, 

Beneath the turrets high, 
A maiden on the castle wall 

Was singing merrily, — 

* O, Brignal banks are fresh and fair, 

And Greta woods are green; 
I 'd rather rove with Edmund there, 
Than reign our English queen." 

'* If, maiden, thou wouldst wend with me, 

To leave both tower and town, 
Thou first must guess what life lead we, 

That dwell by dale and down. 
And if thou canst that riddle read, 

As read full well vou mav, 
Then to the greenwood shalt thou speed 

As blithe as queen of May." 

Yet sung she, " Brignal banks are fair, 
And Greta woods are green ; 

I 'd rather rove with Edmund there. 
Than reign our English queen. 

* I read you, by your bugle horn. 

And by your palfrey good, 
I read you for a ranger sworn, 
To keep the king's greenwood." 



SONG, 

** A ranger, lady, winds his horn, 
And 't is at peep of light ; 
His blast is heard at merry morn, 
And mine at dead of night." 

Yet suno^ she, ^' Bri^nal banks are fair, 

And Greta woods are gay, 
I would I were with Edmund there, 

To reign his queen of May ! 

** With burnished brand and musquetoon, 
So gallantly you come, 
I read you for a bold dragoon. 
That lists the tuck of drum." 
** I list no more the tuck of drum, 
No more the trumpet hear ; 
But when the beetle sounds his hum. 
My comrades take the spear. 



137 



' ' And O ! though Brignal banks be fair, 
And Greta woods be gay, 
Yet mickle must the maiden dare, 
Would reign my queen of May ! 

' Maiden ! a nameless life I lead, 

A nameless death I '11 die; 
The fiend whose lantern lights the mead 

Were better mate than I! 
And when I 'm with my comrades met. 

Beneath the o-reenwood bouijh. 
What once we were we all foroet, 

'Nor think what we are now. 



*' Yet Brignal banks are fresh and fair, 
And Greta woods are green, 



138 BALLADS AND LYRICS. 

And you may gather garlands there, 
Would grace a summer queen." 

Sir Walter Scott. 



SOXG. 

'* A WEARY lot is thine, fair maid, 

A weary lot is thine I 
To pull the thorn, thy brow to braid, 

And press the rue for wine! 
A lightsome eye, a soldier's mien, 

A feather of the bkie, 
A doublet of the Lincoln green, — 

No more of me you knew. 

My love ! 

Xo more of me you knew. 

** The morn is merry June, I trow, 
-The rose is budding fain, 
But she shall bloom in winter snow, 

Ere we two meet again." 
He turned Lis charger as he spake. 

Upon the river shore, 
He gave his bridle reins a shake, 
Said, " Adieu for evermore. 

My love ! 
And adieu for evermore." 

Sir Walter Scott. 



BATTLE OF THE BALTIC. 



139 



BATTLE OF THE BALTIC.^ 

Of Nelson and the North, 

Sing the glorious day's renown, 

When to battle fierce came forth 

All the mio'ht of Denmark's crown, 

And her arms along the deep proudly shone; 

By each gun the lighted brand, 

In a bold determined hand, 

And the Prince of all the land 

Led them on. 

Like leviathans afloat, 

Lay their bulwarks on the brine; 

While the sign of battle flew 

On the lofty British line : 

It was ten of April morn by the chime : 

As they drifted on their path, 

There was silence deep as death; 

And the boldest held his breath. 

For a time. 

But the mio^ht of Endand flush'd 
To anticipate the scene; 
And her van the fleeter rush'd 
O'er the deadly space between. 
*' Hearts of oak! " our captains cried: when each gun 
From its adamantine lips 
Spread a death-shade round the ships, 
Like the hurricane eclipse 
Of the sun. 

1 Copenhagen was bombarded by the English fleet, under Lord 
Nelson and Admiral Parker, in April, 1801, and the Danish fleet 
t\ as almost totally destroyed in the engagement. 






140 



BALLADS AND LYRICS. 



And the havoc did not slack, 

Till a feeble cheer the Dane 

To our cheering sent us back; 

Their shots along the deep slowly boom: 

Then ceased — and all is wail, 

As they strike the shattered sail 

Or, in conflagration pale, 

Light the gloom. 

Out spoke the victor then, 
As he hail'd them o'er the wave; 
** Ye are brothers! ye are men! 
And we conquer but to save: 
So peace .in stead of death let us bring; 
But yield, proud foe, thy fleet, 
With the crews, at England's feet. 
And make submission meet 
To our King." 

Then Denmark blest our chief, 

That he gave her wounds repose; 

And the sounds of joy and grief 

From her people wildl}^ rose. 

As death withdrew his shades from the day. 

While the sun look'd smiling bright 

O'er a wide and woeful sight, 

Where the fires of funeral light 

Died awav. 



Now joy, old England, raise! 

For the tidings of thy might. 

By the festal cities' blaze, 

While the wine-cup shines in light ; 

And yet amidst that joy and uproar, 



J_ 



YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND, Ul 

Let us think of them that sleep, 
Full many a fathom deep, 
By thy wild and stormy steep, 
Elsinore ! 

Brave hearts! to Britain's pride 

Once so faithful and so true, 

On the deck of fame that died, 

With the o^allant s^ood Kiou : ^ 

Soft sioh the winds of Heaven o'er their orrave ! 

While the billow mournful rolls 

And the mermaid's sono; condoles, 

Singing glory to the souls 

Of the brave ! 

Thomas Campbell. 



YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND. 

I. 

Ye mariners of England! 

That guard our native seas; 

Whose flag has braved, a thousand years, 

The battle and the breeze! 

Your crlorious standard launch ag^ain 

To match another foe ! 

And sweep through the deep, 

While the stormy tempests blow; 

While the battle ra^es loud and lonu, 

And the stormy tempests blow. 

1 Captain Riou, justly entitled the gallant and the good by 
Lord Nelson, when he wrote home his dispatches. 



Frii»fWVVAfcL^*; 



142 BALLADS AND LYRICS. 

II. 
The spirits of your fathers 
Shall start from every wave ! — 
For the deck it was their field of fame, 
And ocean was their ofi*ave: 
AVhere Blake and miohty Xelson fell, 
Your manly hearts shall glow, 
As ye sweep through the deep, 
"V\1iile the stormy tempests blow; 
AVhile the battle rages loud and long, 
And the stormy tempests blow. 

III. 
Britannia needs no bulwark, 
No towers along the steep; 
Her march is o'er the mountain-waves, 
Her home is on the deep. 
With thunders from her native oak, 
She quells the floods below, — 
As they roar on the shore. 
When the stormy tempests blow ; 
When the battle raores loud and lonor 
And the stormy tempests blow. 

IV. 

The meteor flacr of Eno-land 

Shall yet terrific burn ; 

Till danger's troubled night depart, 

And the star of peace return. 

Then, then, ye ocean- warriors ! 

Our sons: and feast shall flow 

To the fame of your name, 

When the storm has ceased to blow; 

When the fiery fight is heard no more, 

And the storm has ceased to blow. 

Thomas Campbell, 



*T--/irT«i« 



THE FORAY. 143 



BORDER BALLAD. 

March, march, Ettrick and Teviotdale, 

Why the deil dinna ye march forward in order? 
March, march, Eskdale and Liddesdale, 

All the Bkie Bonnets are bound for the Border 

Many a banner spread 

Flutters above your head, 
Many a crest that is famous in story. 

Mount and make ready then, t 

Sons of the mountain glen, I 

Fight for the Queen and our old Scottish glory. \ 



Come from the hills where your hirsels are grazing, 

Come from the glen of the buck and the roe; 
Come to the crag^ where the beacon is blazing^, 
Come with the buckler, the lance, and the bow. 
Trumpets are sounding, 
War-steeds are boundino^, 
Stand to your arms, then, and march in good order, 
England shall many a day 
Tell of the bloody fray. 
When the Blue Bonnets came over the Border. 

Sir Walter Scott. 

The Monastery. 



THE FORAY. 



The last of our steers on the board has been spread. 
And the last flask of wine in our oroblet is red : 
Jp! np, my brave kinsmen! belt swords and begone, 
There are dangers to dare, and there 's spoil to be won. 



144 BALLADS AND LYRICS. 

The eyes that so lately mixed glances with ours 
For a space must be dim, as they gaze from the towers, 
And strive to distinguish, through tempest and gloom, 
The prance of the steed and the toss of the plume. 

The rain is descending; the wind rises loud ; 
And the moon her red beacon has veiled with a cloud; 
■Tis the better, my mates! for the warder's dull eye 
Shall in confidence slumber, nor dream we are nigrh. 

Our steeds are impatient! I hear my blithe Gray! 
There is life in his hoof-clang, and hope in his neigh; 
Like the flash of a meteor, the glance of his mane 
Shall marshal your march through the darkness and 
rain. 

The drawbridge has dropped, the bugrle has blown; 
One pl^^dge is to quaff yet — then mount and be- 
gone ! 
To their honor and peace, that shall rest with the slain, 
To their health and their s^lee, that see Teviot aorain! 

Sir Walter Scott. 



THE JOURNEY ONWARDS. 

As slow our ship her foamy track 

Against the wind was cleaving. 
Her trembling pennant still look'd back 

To that dear isle • t was leaving. 
So loath we part from all we love. 

From all the links that bind us ; 
So turn our hearts, as on we rove, 

To those we ' ve left behind us I 



THE JOURNEY ONWARDS. Ho 

When, round the bowl, of vanish'd years 

We talk with joyous seeming — 
With smiles that might as well be tears, 

So faint, so sad their beaming; 
While memory brino-s us back airain 

Each early tie that twined us, 
O, sweet 's the cup that circles then 

To those we 've left behind us! 

And when, in other climes, we meet 

Some isle or vale enchantins;, 
Where all looks flowery wild and sweet, 

And nouojht but love is wantinor; 
We think how great had been our bliss 

If Heaven had but assio-n'd us 
To live and die in scenes like this, 

With some we 've left behind us ! I 



As travellers oft look back at eve 

When eastward darklv ofoingr. 
To gaze upon that light they leave 

Still faint behind them o-lowins:, — 
So, when the close of pleasure's day 

To o-loom hath near consio-n'd us, 
We turn to catch one fading ray 

Of joy that 's left behind us. 

Thomas Moore.^ 

1 Thomas Moore, the son of a respectable Roman Catholic 
gi'ocer, was born in Dublin, in May, 1779. He was educated at 
the Dublin schools and at Trinity College, Dublin. He began to 
write verses and love songs at an early age, and on going to 
Tendon to study law, after leaving college, he returned to his 
early love for literature. He soon abandoned the law, obtained 
a place under government, travelled in America, and fmally 
settled in England to lead a literary life. He made money from 
his writings, and received a pension from the government. He 
10 



^ 



-p 



146 BALLADS AND LYRICS. 



JOCK OF HAZELDEAN. 

I. 

" Why weep ye by the tide, ladie? 
Why weep ye by the tide ? 

\ I Ml wed ye to my youngest son, 

I And ye sail be his bride : 

\ And ye sail be his bride, ladie, 

f Sae comely to be seen " — 

But aye she loot the tears down fa' 
For Jock of Hazeldean. 

II. 

*'Now let this wilfu* grief be done, 

And dry that cheek so pale : 
Young Frank is chief of Errington, 

And lord of Langley-dale; 
His step is first in peaceful ha'. 

His sword in battle keen " — 
But aye she loot the tears down fa' 

For Jock of Hazeldean. 



\ in. 

i ** A chain of gold ye sail not lack, 

i Xor braid to bind your hair; 

Nor mettled hound, nor managed hawk, 

Nor palfrey fresh and fair; 
And you, the foremost o' them a'. 
Shall ride our forest queen ' ' — 
i But aye she loot the tears down fa' 

* For Jock of Hazeldean. 

was the intimate friend of Lord Byron, and of many of the mcD 
>f the day nl0:^t famous in politics and literature. His most 
ambitious work was Lalla JRookh, but his fame rests chiefly on 
his songs and hTics. He died in 1852. 



THE INCHCAPE ROCK. 147 

IV. 

The kirk was decked at morning- tide, 

The tapers glimmered fair; 
The priest and bridegroom wait the bride, 

And dame and knight were there. 
They sought her baith by bower and ha' ; 

The ladie was not seen! 
She 's o'er the Border, and awa' 

Wi' Jock of Hazeldean. 

Sir Walter Scott. 



THE INCHCAPE ROCK. 

No stir in the air, no stir in the sea, 
The ship was still as she could be; 
Her sails from heaven received no motion; 
Her keel was steady in the ocean. 

Without either si^n or sound of their shock, 
The waves flowed over the Inchcape Rock ; 
So little they rose, so little they fell, 
They did not move the Inchcape Bell. 

The Abbot of Aberbrothok 
Had placed that Bell on the Inchcape Rock ; 
On a buoy in the storm it floated and swung, 
And over the waves its warnino^ rung^. 

When the Rock was hid by the surge's swell. 
The mariners heard the warning bell ; 
And then they knew the perilous Rock, 
And blest the Abbot of Aberbrothok. 

The sun in heaven was shining gay; 
All things were joyful on that day; 



148 BALLADS AND LYRICS. 

The sea-birds screamed as tbey wheeled round, 
And there was joyance in their sound. 

The buoy of the Inchcape Bell was seen, 
A darker speck on the ocean green: 
Sir Ralph the Rover walked his deck, 
And he fixed his eye on the darker speck. 

He felt the cheering power of spring ; 
It made him whistle, it made him sing: 
His heart was mirthful to excess. 
But the Rover's mirth was wickedness. 

His eye was on the Inchcape float ; 
Quoth he, " My men, put out the boat, 
And row me to the Inchcape Rock, 
And I '11 plague the Abbot of Aberbrothok." 

The boat is lowered, the boatmen row, 

And to the Inchcape Rock they go ; 

Sir Ralph bent over from the boat, 

And he cut the bell from the Inchcape float. 

Down sunk the Bell with a o^urMin^ sound: 

The bubbles rose and burst around: 

Quoth Sir Ralph, " The next who comes to the rock 

Won't bless the Abbot of Aberbrothok." 

Sir Ralph the Rover sailed away ; 
He scoured the seas for many a day; 
And now, grown rich with plundered store. 
He steers his course for Scotland's shore. 

So thick a haze o'erspreads the sky, 
Thev cannot see the sun on high: 



««a 



f 



THE INC HC APE ROCK, ^ 149 

The wind hath blown a gale all day; 
At evening it hath died away. 



On the deck the Rover takes his stand ; 
So dark it is, they see no land. 
Quoth Sir Ralph, " It will be lighter soon. 
For there is the dawn of the risino; moon." 

" Canst hear," said one, '* the breakers roar? 

For methinks we should be near the shore." 
*' Now where we are I cannot tell. 

But I wish I could hear the Inchcape Bell. " 

They hear no sound ; the swell is strong ; 
Though the wind hath fallen, they drift along, 
Till the vessel strikes with a shivering; shock: 
** O Christ! it is the Inchcape Rock! " 

Sir Ralph the Rover tore his hair; 
He cursed himself in his despair: 
The waves rush in on every side ; 
The ship is sinking beneath the tide. 

But, even in his dying fear, 
One dreadful sound could the Rover hear, — 
A sound as if, with the Inchcape Bell, 
The Devil below was rino;ino; his knell. 

Robert Southey.^ 

1 Robert Southey, the son of a linen draper of Bristol, was 
X 10. in 1774, educated at Bristol and Westminster, and at Ba- 
i\ol College, Oxford. He tried the law, held a few offices, and 
then betook himself to literature, to which he devoted his life. 
He was made poet-laureate in 1813, and held this post until his 
death, in 1843. His works, both in prose and in verse, are very 
numerous, and are nearly all unread at the present day. 




150 BALLADS AND LYRICS, 



THE LAMEXTATION FOR CELIN. 

At the gate of old Granada, when all its bolts are 

barred, 
At twilight, at the Vega-gate, there is a trampling 

heard ; 
There is a trampling heard, as of horses treading slow, 
And a weeping voice of women, and a heavy sound of 

woe ! 
** What tower is fallen, what star is set, what chief 

come these bewailingr? " 
" A tower is fallen, a star is set! — Alas! alas for 

Celin!" 

Three times they knock, three times they cry, — and 

wide the doors they throw; 
Dejectedly they enter, and mournfully they go; 
In o-loomv lines they musterino^ stand, beneath the hoi- 

low porch, 
Each horseman grasping in his hand a black and flam- 

ino; torch; 
Wet is each eye as they go by, and all around is wail- 

ing? 
For all have heard the misery. — "Alas! alas for 
Celin!" 

Him, yesterday, a Moor did slay, of Bencerraje's 

blood, — 
'Twas at the solemn jousting — around the nobles 

stood; 
The nobles of the land were by, and ladies bright and 

fair 
Looked from their latticed windows, the haughty sight 

to share ; 



THE LAMENTATION FOR CELIN. 151 j 

But now the nobles all lament — the ladies are bewail- * 

ing— ^ ^ 

For he was Granada's darling knight. — "Alas! alas * 

forCelin!" f 

Before him ride his vassals, in order two by two, ;, 
With ashes on their turbans spread, most pitiful to 

view; \ 

Behind him his four sisters, each wrapped in sable veil, y 

Between the tambour's dismal strokes take up their | 

doleful tale; \ 

When stops the muffled drum, ye hear their brother- \ 

less bewailino^. 

And all the people, far and near, cry — '' Alas! alas l 

for Celin!'' | 

O ! lovely lies he on the bier, above the purple pall, - 
The flower of all Granada's youth, the loveliest of them 

all; • 
His dark, dark eyes are closed, his rosy lip is pale. 
The crust of blood lies black and dim upon his bur- 

nisht'd mail ; 
And evermore the hoarse tambour breaks in upon their 

wailino;. 

Its sound is like no earthly sound — "Alas! alas for ,• 

Celin 1 " f 

i 

The Moorish maid at the lattice stands, the Moor \ 

stands at his door; ^ 

One maid is wringing of her hands, and one is weep- 
ing sore; 

Down to the dust men bow their heads, and ashes 

black they strew {; 

Upon their broidered garments, of crimson, green, and 
blue : 



I- 



152 BALLADS AND LYRICS. 

Before each gate the bier stands £till, — then bursts 

the loud bewailing, 
From door and lattice, high and low — **Alas! alas 

for Celin!" 



An old, old woman cometh forth, when she hears the 

people cry, — 
Her hair is white as silver, like horn her glazed eye: 
'T was she that nursed him at her breast, that nursed 

him long ago; 
She knows not whom they all lament, but soon she 

well shall know! 
With one deep shriek, she thro' doth break, when her 

ears receive their wailino^ — 
"Let me kiss my Celin ere I die — Alas I alas for 

Celin!" 

J. G. LOCKHART.I 

Spanish Ballads. 

1 John Gibson Lockhart, born in 1794, in Lanarkshire, 
Scotland, was educated at Glasgow, and admitted to the Scotch 
bar in 1816. He contributed to the magazines of the day, and 
his literary propensities were confirmed by his marriage, in 1820, 
with Sophia, the eldest daughter of Sir Walter Scott. In 1826 he 
removed to London and accepted the editorship of the London 
Quarterly Review^ a position which he retained until 1853. He 
wrote many essays, and some biographical and historical works 
as well as romances. His best works are his life of Scott and 
his translations of the ancient Spanish ballads He died in 
1854. 




" She that nursed him long ago." See p. 152. 



SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY. 153 



THE PEIDE OF YOUTH. 

Pkoud Maisie is in the wood, 

Walkino: so earlv: 
Sweet Kobin sits on the bush, 

Singing so rarely. 

*^ Tell me, thou bonny bird, 

When shall I marry me ? " 
" When six braw o^entlemen 

Kirkward shall carry ye." 

** Who makes the bridal bed, 

Birdie, say truly?" 
** The o;rav-headed sexton 

That delves the grave duly. 

** The glow-worm o'er grave and stone 
Shall light thee steady ; 
The owl from the steeple sing, 
Welcome, proud lady." 

Sir Walter Scott. 
Heart of Mid-Lothian. 



SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY. 

She walks in beauty, like the night 
Of cloudless climes and starry skies; 

And all that *s best of dark and bright 
Meets in her aspect and her eyes: 

Thus mellow'd to that tender lioht 
Which heaven to gaudy day denies. 



154 BALLADS AND LYRICS. 

One shade tlie more, one ray the less, 
Had half impair'd the nameless grace 

Which waves in every raven tress, 
Or softly lightens o'er her face; 

AVliere thoughts serenely sweet express 
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place. 

And on that cheek, and o'er that brow, 

So soft, so calm, yet eloquent, 
The smiles that win, the tints that glow, 

But tell of days in goodness spent, 
A mind at peace with all below, 

A heart whose love is innocent ! 

Lord Bykon.^ 



SHE WAS A PHANTOM OF DELIGHT. 

She was a phantom of delight 

When first she gleam'd upon my sight; 

1 George G<^rdox, Lord Byron, the descendant of a very 
old, noble, and distinguished family, of which he was the last 
representative, was born in 1788, and educated at Harrow and 
at Trinity College, Cambridge. He had a head and face of great 
beauty, and an athletic frame, but he was deformed and incura- 
bly lame. His first verses were a failure; but on his return 
from travelling in the East, in 1811, he published the first two 
cantos of Childe Harold^ and sprang at once into world-wide 
reputation. He married Miss Millbanke in 1815, and in the fol- 
lowing year they separated. Lord Byron returned to voluntary 
exile on the Continent, and never came back to Enghmd. He 
headed an expedition for the liberation of Greece in 1823, and 
died at Missolonghi in 1824. He wrote many poems, and both 
the longer ones, like Childe Harold^ and the sliort lyrics and 
songs, are among the greatest works of English poetry. His 
oareer was tarnished and his great genius sullied by reckless 
dissipation, by a bitter temper, and by an arrogant and vain dis- 
position. 



SEE WAS A PHANTOM OF DELIGHT. 155 

A lovely apparition, sent 1 

To be a moment's ornament ; 

Her eyes as stars of twilight fair; 

Like Twilight's, too, her dusky hair; 

But all thino;s else about her drawn 

From May-time and the cheerful dawn ; 

A dancing shape, an image gay, | 

To haunt, to startle, and waylay. 

I saw her upon nearer view, 
A spirit, yet a woman too ! 
Her household motions, light and free, 
And steps of virgin liberty; 
A countenance in which did meet 
Sweet records, promises as sweet; 
A creature not too bright or good 
For human nature's daily food. 
For transient sorrows, simple wiles, 
. Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles. 

And now I see with eye serene 
The very pulse of the machine; 
A beino; breathino; thouo;htful breath, 
A traveller between life and death ; 
The reason firm, the temperate will. 
Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill; 
A perfect woman, nobly plann'd 
To warn, to comfort, and command ; 
And yet a spirit stiil, and bright 
With somethinor of an ano;el-lio;ht. 

William Wordsworth.^ 

1 William Wordsworth was born in Cumberland in 1770, 
and was educated at St. John's College, Cambridge. He inher- 
ted sufficient property to render him independent, and after liv- 
ing for a time in Dorsetshire, he finally established himself at 



156 BALLADS AND LYRICS. 



HYMN FOR THE DEAD.i 

That day of wrath, that dreadful day, 
When heaven and earth shall pass away, 
What power shall be the sinner's stay? 
How shall he meet that dreadful day? 

When, shrivelling like a parched scroll, 
The flaming heavens together roll ; 
When louder yet, and yet more dread, 
Swells the high trump that wakes the dead ! 

I on that day, that wrathful day, 
When man to judgment wakes from clay, 
Be Thou the tremblinjr sinner's stav, 
Though heaven and earth shall pass away ! 

Sir Walter Scott. 

Rydal Mount, among the English Lakes, where he remained 
until his death. He had a sinecure position under government, 
and subsequently a pension, and in 1843 he was made poet- 
laureate, on the death of Southey. He died in 1850. He was 
a prolific writer of verse, much of which is esteemed of great 
beauty, and he is considered by his admirers to hold the next 
place to Shakespeare and Milton, an opinion from which many 
persons dissent. He was the most famous of the '' Lake School " 
of poets, and represented, perhaps, better than any one else, the 
reaction of the nineteenth century against the school of Pope, 
and the change from the highly artificial to the simple and 
natural in poetry. 

1 This is a translation of a portion of the Dits Iroe, the most 
famous hymn of the early church. Macaulayhas translated the 
whole hymn, and other versions, including an excellent one by 
the late General Dix, are to be found in a little volume entitled 
The Seven Great Hymns of the JledicBval Church. 



DESTRUCTlOy OF SENNACHERIB. 157 



THE DESTEUCTION OF SENNACHERIB. 

The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold, 
And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold ; 
And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea, 
When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee. 

Like the leaves of the forest when Summer is green, 
That host with their banners at sunset were seen : 
Like the leaves of the forest when Autumn hath blown, 
That host on the morrow lay wither'd and strown. 

For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast. 
And breath'd in the face of the foe as he pass'd, 
And the eyes of the sleepers Avax'd deadly and chill. 
And their hearts but once heav'd, and forever grew still ! 

And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide, 
But through it there rolled not the breath of his pride : 
And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf, 
And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf. 

And there lay the rider, distorted and pale, 
With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his mail ; 
And the tents were all silent, the banners alone, 
The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown. 

And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail. 
And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal ; 
And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword. 
Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord ! 

Lord Byron. 



T 



158 BALLADS AND LYRICS. 



REBECCA'S HYMN. 

When Israel, of the Lord beloved, 

Out from the land of bondage came. 
Her fathers' God before her moved, 

An awful guide in smoke and flame. 
By day, along the astonished lands. 

The cloudy pillar glided slow ; 
By night, Arabia's crimsoned sands 

Returned the fiery column's glow. 

There rose the choral hymn oF praise, 

And trump and timbrel answered keen. 
And Zion's daughters poured their lays, 

With priest's and warrior's voice between, 
No portents now our foes amaze, 

Forsaken Israel wanders lone : 
Our fathers would not know Thy ways. 

And Thou hast left them to their own. 

But present still, though now unseen ! 

When brightly shines the prosperous day, 
Be thoughts of Thee a cloudy screen 

To temper the deceitful ray. 
And O, when stoops on Judah's path 

In shade and storm the frequent night. 
Be Thou, long-suffering, slow to wrath, 

A burning and a shining light ! 

Our harps we left by Babel's streams. 
The tyrant's jest, the Gentile's scorn : 

No censer round our altar beams. 

And mute are timbrel, harp, and horn. 



VISION OF BELSHAZZAB. 159 

But Thou hast said, ** The blood of goat, 

The flesh of rams, I will not prize ; 
A contrite heart, a humble thought, 
Are mine accepted sacrifice." 

Sir Walter Scott. 

Ivanhoe, 



VISION OF BELSHAZZAR. 

The Kingr was on his throne, 

The satraps throng 'd the hall; 
A thousand bright lamps shone 

O'er that high festival. 
A thousand cups of gold, 

In Judah deem'd divine, — 
Jehovah's vessels hold 

The godless Heathen's wine! 

In tliat same hour and hall, 

The fingers of a hand 
Came forth agrainst the wall. 

And wrote as if on sand: 
Tlie fingers of a man ; — 

A solitary hand 
Along the letters ran, 

And traced them like a wand. 

The monarch saw and shook, 
And bade no more rejoice; 

All bloodless wax'd his look. 
And tremulous his voice. 
^ Let the men of lore appear 
The wisest of the earth, 



160 BALLADS AND LYRICS 

And expound the words of fear, 
Which mar our roval mirth/' 



Chaldea's seers are g^ood, 

But here they have no skill; 
And the unknown letters stood 

Untold and awful still. 
And Babel's men of aoje 

Are wise and deep in lore; 
But now they were not sage, 

They saw — but knew no more. 

A captive in the land, 

A stranger and a youth, 
He heard the Kinor's command, 

He saw that writing's truth. 
The lamps around were bright, 

The prophecy in view; 
He read it on that night, — 

The morrow proved it true. 

** Belshazzar's grave is made, 
His kingdom pass'd away, 
He, in the balance weigh'd, 

Is light and worthless clay. 
The shroud his robe of state, 

His canopy the stone; 
The Mede is at his gate ! 

The Persian on his throne ! ' ' 

Lord Byron. 



THE BRIDAL OF ANDALL^ 161 



THE BRIDAL OF ANDALLA. 

** Rise up, rise up, Xarifa ! lay the golden cushion 

down ; 
Rise up, come to the window, and gaze with all the 

town ! 
From gay guitar and violin the silver notes are flowing, 
And the lovely lute doth speak between the trumpet's 

lordly blowing. 
And banners brig^ht from lattice light are waving^ everv- 

where, 
And the tall, tall plume of our cousin's bridegroom 

floats proudly in the air: 
Rise up, rise up, Xarifa ! lay the golden cushion down ; 
Rise up, come to the window, and gaze with all the 

town ! 

^* Arise, arise, Xarifa! I see Andalla's face, — 

He bends him to the people with a calm and princely 

grace ; 
Through all the land of Xeres and banks of Guadal- 

quiver 
Rode forth brideg^room so brave as he, so brave and 

lovely, never. 
Yon tall plume waving o'er his brow, of purple mixed 

with white, 
I oruess 'twas wreathed bv Zara, whom he will wed 

to-nio-ht! 
Rise up, rise up, Xarifa ! lay the golden cushion down ; 
Rise up, come to the window, and gaze with all the 

town! 

"What aileth thee, Xarifa? what makes thine eyes 
look down? 
11 



162 



BALLADS AND LYRICS. 



Why stay ye from the window far nor gaze with all 

the town? 
I Ve heard you say on many a day, and sure you said 

the truth, 
Andalla rides without a peer, among all Granada's 

youth. 
Without a peer he rideth, and yon milk-white horse 

doth go. 
Beneath his stately master, with a stately step and 

slow: 
Then rise — O! rise, Xarifa, lay the golden cushion 

down ; 
Unseen here through the lattice, you may gaze with 

all the town!" 

The Zegri lady rose not, nor laid her cushion down, 
Nor came she to the window to gaze with all the 

town ; 
But though her eyes dwelt on her knee, in vain her 

fingers strove, 
And though her needle pressed the silk, no flower 

Xarifa wove; 
One bonny rose-bud she had traced, before the noise 

drew nigh; 
That bonny bud a tear effaced, slow drooping from her 

eye. 
"No — no I" she sighs, "bid me not rise, nor lay my 

cushion down, 
To gaze upon Andalla with all the gazing town! " 



" Why rise ye not, Xarifa, — nor lay your cushion 

down ? 
Why gaze ye not, Xarifa, — with all the gazing town ? 
Hear, hear the trumpet, how it swells, and how the 

people cry! 



CORONACH. 163 

He stops at Zara's palace-gate — why sit ye still — O, 
why?" 

** At Zara's gate stops Zara's mate; in him shall I dis- 
cover 

The dark-eyed youth pledged me his truth with tears, 
and was my lover? 

I will not rise, with weary eyes, nor lay my cushion 
down, 

To gaze on false Andalla with all the gazing town! " 

J. G. LOCKHART. 

Spanish Ballads* 



CORONACH. 



He is gone on the mountain, 

He is lost to the forest. 
Like a summer-dried fountain, 

When our need was the sorest. 
The fount, reappearing, 

From the raindrops shall borrow, 
But to us comes no cheering, 

To Duncan no morrow! 

The hand of the reaper 

Takes the ears that are hoary; 
But the voice of the weeper 

Wails manhood in glory. 
The autumn winds rushing 

Waft the leaves that are searest ; 
But our flower was in flushing 

When bli2:htinor was nearest. 

Fleet foot on the correi, 
Sage counsel in cumber, 



164 BALLADS AJSD LYRICS. 

Red hand in the foray, 

How sound is thy slumber! 

Like the dew on the mountain, 
Like the foam on the river, 

Like the bubble on the fountain, 
Thou art gone, and forever! 

Sir Walter Scott. 



HELYELLYN. 



I CLIMBED the dark brow of the mighty Helvellyn, 
Lakes and mountains beneath me gleamed misty and 

wide ; 
All was still, save by fits, when the eagle was yelling, 
And starting around me the echoes replied. 
On the right, Striden-edge round the Red-tarn was 

bending. 
And Catchedicam its left verge was defending. 
One huge nameless rock in the front was ascending. 
When I marked the sad spot where the wanderer had 

died. 

Dark green was the spot 'mid the brown mountain- 
heather. 
Where the Pilgrim of Nature lay stretched in decay, 
Like the corpse of an outcast abandoned to weather, 
Till the mountain winds wasted the tenantless clay. 
Nor yet quite deserted, though lonely extended. 
For, faithful in death, his mute favorite attended, 
The much-loved remains of her master defended, 
And chased the hill-fox and the raven away. 



4 




Lakes, mountains beneath me gleamed misty and weird." See p. 164. 



HELVELLYN. 165 

How long didst thou think that his silence was slum- 
ber? 

When the wind waved his garment, how oft didst thou 
start ? 

How many long days and long weeks didst thou num- 
ber, 

Ere he faded before thee, the friend of thy heart ? 

And O, was it meet, that — no requiem read o'er 
him. 

No mother to weep, and no friend to deplore him. 

And thou, little guardian, alone stretched before 
him — 

Unhonored the Pilgrim from life should depart? 

When a Prince to the fate of the Peasant has yielded, 
The tapestry waves dark round the dim-lighted hall; 
With scutcheons of silver the coffin is shielded. 
And pages stand mute by the canopied pall: 
Through the courts, at deep midnight, the torches are 

gleaming ; 
In the proudly-arched chapel the banners are beaming. 
Far adown the lono- aisle sacred music is streamino*, 
Lamenting a chief of the people should fall. 

But meeter for thee, gentle lover of nature. 

To lay down thy head like the meek mountain lamb, 

A'Vhen, wildered, he drops from some cliff huge in 

stature. 
And draws his last sob by the side of his dam. 
And more stately thy couch by this desert lake lying, 
Thy obsequies sung by the gray plover flyino-. 
With one faithful friend but to witness thy dying, 
In the arms of Helvellyn and Catchedicam. 

Sir W^alter Scott. 



166 BALLADS AND LYRICS. 



THE LORD OF BUTRAGO. 

** Your horse is faint, my King — my Lord! your gal- 
lant horse is sick ; 

His limbs are torn, his breast is gored, on his eye the 
film is thick ; 

Mount, mount on mine, O, mount apace, I pray thee, 
mount and fly ! 

Or in my arms I '11 lift your grace, — their trampling 
hoofs are nio;h! 

*' My King — my King! you *re wounded sore, — the 
blood runs from your feet; 

But only lay a hand before, and I'll lift you to your 
seat: 

Mount, Juan, for they gather fast I I hear their com- 
ing cry ! 

Mount, mount, and ride for jeopardy ! I '11 save you 
thouoh I die ! 

** Stand, noble steed ! this hour of need — be gentle as 

a lamb: 
I '11 kiss the foam from off thy mouth — thy master 

dear I am ! 
Mount, Juan, mount! whatever betide, away the bridle 

fling, 
And plunge the rowels in his side! — my horse shall 

save my Kino;! 

"Nay, never speak: my sires, Lord King, received 
their land from yours, 

And joyfully their blood shall spring, so be it thine se- 
cures: 




KUBLA KHAN. 167 

K I should fly, and thou, my King, be found among 

the dead, 
How could I stand 'mong gentlemen, such scorn on my 

gray head ? 

'* Castile's proud dames shall never point the finger of 
disdain, 

And say, There 's one that ran away when our good 
lords were slain! 

I leave Diego in your care, — you '11 fill his father's 
place : 

Strike, strike the spur, and never spare — God's bless- 
ing on your grace! " 

So spake the brave Montanez, Butrago's lord was he; 
And turned him to the comino; host in steadfastness 

and glee; 
He flung himself among them, as they came down the 

hill; . 
He died, God wot! but not before his sword had drunk 

its fill! 

J. G. LOCKHART. 

Spanish Ballads. 



KUBLA KHAN. 

In Xanadu did Kubla Khan 

A stately pleasure-dome decree: 
Where Alph, the sacred river, ran 
Throuoh caverns measureless to man 

Down to a sunless sea. 
So twice five miles of fertile ground 
With walls and towers were girdled round: 



168 



BALLADS AND LYRICS. 



And there were grardens bri2:bt with sinuous rills. 
Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree ; 
And here were forests ancient as the hills, 
Enfolding sunny spots of greenery. 

But O! that deep romantic chasm which slanted 

Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover! 

A savage place! as holy and enchanted 

As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted 

By woman wailing for her demon lover! 

And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething, 

As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing, 

A mighty fountain momently was forced : 

Amid whose swift half -intermitted burst 

Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail, 

Or chaffv orrain beneath the thresher's flail: 

And 'mid these dancing rocks at once and ever 

It flung up momently the sacred river. 

Five miles meandering with a mazy motion 

Through wood and dale the sacred river ran, 

Then reached the caverns measureless to man, 

And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean: 

And 'mid this tumult Kubla beard from far 

Ancestral voices prophesying war! 

The shadow of the dome of pleasure 

Floated midway on the waves; 

Where was heard the mingled measure 

From the fountain and the eaves. 
It was a miracle of rare device, 
A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice I 

A damsel with a dulcimer 

In a vision once I saw: 

It was an Abyssinian maid, 

And on her dulcimer she played, 

Sinofinop of Mount Abora. 



BERNARDO AND ALPHONSO. 169 

Could I revive within me 

Her sjmpliony and song, 

To such a deep delight 't would win me 

That with music loud and long, 
I would build that dome in air, 
That sunny dome! those caves of ice! 
And all who heard should see them there, 
And all should cry, Beware! Beware! 
His flashing eyes, his fl.oating hair! 
Weave a circle round him thrice, 
And close your eyes with holy dread, 
For he on honey-dew hath fed. 
And drunk the milk of Paradise. 

Samuel Taylor Coleridge.^ 



BERNARDO AND ALPHONSO. 

With some good ten of his chosen men, Bernardo hath 

appeared 
Before them all in the palace hall, the lying King to 

beard ; 

1 SA]NruET^ Taylor Coleridge, son of Rev. John Coleridge, 
bom in 1772, was educated at Christ's Hospital, and afterwards 
at Jesus College, Cambridge. He entered the light dragoons, 
but soon escaped from this uncongenial pursuit, and devoted 
himself to literature, in which he achieved celebrity as poet, 
philosopher, and critic. His fame rests principally on his prose 
writings, but much of his poetrj'- is of a very high order, particu- 
larly the famous Jiime of the Ancient Mariner and Genevieve. 
He died in 1834. His activity was impaired and his career marred 
and broken by excessive indulgence in opium. The famous 
poem in the text, a fragment only, was composed during sleep pro- 
duced, probably, by opimn. 



170 BALLADS AND LYRICS. 

With cap in hand and eye on ground, he came in rev- 
erend guise, 

But ever and anon he frowned, and flame broke from 
his eyes. 

** A curse upon thee," cries the King, " who comest 
unhid to me ; 

But what from traitor's blood should spring, save trai- 
tors like to thee? 

His sire, lords, had a traitor's heart; perchance our 
champion brave 

May think it were a pious part to share Don Sancho's 
grave." 

*' Whoever told this tale the King hath rashness to re- 
peat," 

Cries Bernard, '^here my gage I fling before the liar's 
feet! 

No treason was in Sancho's blood, no stain in mine doth 
lie: 

Below the throne what knight will own the coward 
calumny ? 

** The blood that I like water shed, when Boland did 

advance. 
By secret traitors hired and led, to make us slaves of 

France ; 
The life of King Alphonso I saved at Roncesval, — 
Your words, Lord King, are recompense abundant for 

it all. 

"Your horse was down, — your hope was flown, — I 
saw the falchion shine. 

That soon had drunk your royal blood, had I not vent- 
ured mine; 



BERNARDO AND ALP HON SO, 171 

But memory soon of service done deserteth the in- 
2 grate ; 

j You 've thanked the son for life and crown by the fa- 

\ ther's bloody fate. 

|! '* Ye swore upon your kingly faith, to set Don Sanclio 

free; 
^ But, curse upon your paltering breath, the light he 

i ne'er did see; 

i He died in dungeon cold and dim, by Alphonso's base 

decree, 
I And visage blind, and stiffened limb, were all they gave 

\ to me. 

\ 

■ " The King that swerveth from his word hath stained 
j his purple black; 

j No Spanish lord will draw the sword behind a liar's 

back; 
But noble vengeance shall be mine, an open hate I '11 

show, — 
The King hath injured Carpio's line, and Bernard is 
\' his foe." 

» 

" Seize, seize him ! " loud the King doth scream; " there 
\ are a thousand here ! 

!Let his foul blood this instant stream ! What ! caitiffs, 
do ye fear? 
Seize, seize the traitor! " But not one to move a fin- 
' ger dareth; 

! Bernardo standeth by the throne, and calm his sword 

he bareth. 

iHe drew the falchion from the sheath, and held it up 
on high, 
I ^nd all the hall was still as death: cries Bernard, 

■ ' ' Here am I, — 



172 BALLADS AND LYRICS. 

And here is the sword that owns no lord, excepting 

Heaven and me; 
Fain would I know who dares his point, — King, Conde, 

or Grandee." 

Then to his mouth the horn he drew (it hung below 

his cloak) ; 
His ten true men the signal knew, and through the ring 

they broke; 
With helm on head, and blade in hand, the knights the 

circle brake. 
And back the lordlino-s 'oan to stand, and the false 

King to quake. 

*' Ha! Bernard," quoth Alphonso, " what means this 

warlike cruise? 
Ye know full well I jested, — ve know your worth I 

prize." 
But Bernard turned upon his heel, and smiling passed 

away: 
Long rued Alphonso and his realm the jesting of that 

day. 

J. G. LOCKHART. 

Spanish Ballads. 



BERNARDO DEL CARPIO. 

The warrior bowed his crested head, and tamed his 

heart of fire, 
And sued the haughty King to free his long-imprisoned 

sire; 



BERNARDO DEL CARPIO. 173 

^' I bring thee here my fortress-keys, I bring my cap- 
tive train, 

I pledge thee faith, my liege, my lord ! O! break my 
father's chain! " 

** Rise, rise! ev'n now thy father comes, a ransom'd 

man this day; 
Mount thy good horse, and thou and I will meet him 

on his way." 
Then lightly rose that loyal son, and bounded on his 

steed. 
And urged, as if with lance in rest, the charger's 

foamy speed. 

And lo! from far, as on they press'd, there came a 

glittering band, 
With one that 'midst them stately rode, as a leader in 

the land; 
" Now haste, Bernardo, haste! for there in very truth 

is he, 
The father whom thy faithful heart hath yearn' d so 

Ions: to see." 

His dark eye flash'd, his proud breast heav'd, his 

cheek's hue came and went ; 
He reach' d that gray-haired chieftain's side, and there 

dismounting bent; 
A lowly knee to earth he bent, his father's hand he 

took, — 
What was there in its touch that all his fiery spirit 

shook ? 

That hand was cold, a frozen thing, it dropp'd from 

his like lead ; 
He looked up to the face above, — the face was of the 

deadl 



174 BALLADS AXD LYRICS. 

A plume waved o'er the noble brow, — the brow was 

fixed and white ; 
He met at last his father's eyes, but in them was no 

sight ! 

Up from the ground he sprang, and gazed; but who 
could paint that gaze ? 

They hush'd their very hearts that saw its horror and 
amaze. 

They might have chain'd him as before that stony- 
form he stood, 

For the power was stricken from his arm, and from 
his lip the blood. 

** Father I *' at length he murmur 'd low, and wept like 
childhood then: 

Talk not of grief till thou hast seen the tt^ars of war- 
like men! 

He thought on all his glorious hopes, and all his 
young renown. 

He flung his falchion from his side, and in the dust sat 
down. 

Then covering with his steel-gloved hands his darkly 

mournful brow, 
" No more, there is no more,*' he said, *• to lift the 

sword for now. 
My King is false, my hope betray'd, my father — 0! 

the worth, 
The glory, and the loveUness are pass'd away from 

earth. 

'* I thought to stand where banners waved, my sire, 

beside thee yet ; 
t would that there our kindred blood on Spain's free 

goil had met; 



BERNARDO DEL CARP 10. 175 

Thou wouldst have known my sph^it then : for thee 

my fields were won, 
And thou hast perish'd in tliy chains, as though thou 

hadst no sou ! " 

Then startinor from the ojround once more, he seized 
the monarch's rein. 

Amidst the pale and wilder'd looks of all the courtier- 
train ; 

And with a fierce, o'er-mastering grasp the rearing 
war-horse led, 

And sternly set them face to face, — the King before 
\ the dead. 

\ 

I " Came I not forth upon thy pledge, my father's hand 

* to kiss? 

ej Be still, and gaze thou on, false King ! and tell me, 

what is this ? 
The voice, the glance, the heart I sought, — give an- 
swer, where are they? 

k If thou wouldst clear thy perjured soul, send life 

I through this cold clay. 

" Into these glassy eyes put light, — be still! keep down 
thine ire ! — 

Bid these white lips a blessing speak — this earth is 
I not my sire. 

* Give me back him for whom I strove, for whom my 

I blood was shed : 

] Thou canst not? — and a king ! — his dust be moun- 

I tains on thy head ! ' ' 

He loosed the steed, his slack hand fell ; upon the 

silent face 
He cast one long, deep, troubled look, then turn'd 

from that sad place. 



176 BALLADS AND LYRICS. 

His hope was crusli'd, Lis after-fate untold in martial 

strain, 
llis banner led the spears no more amidst the hills of 

Spain. 

Felicia Hemans.^ 



TO THE POETS. 

Bards of Passion and of Mirth, 
Ye have left your souls on earth! 
Have ye souls in heaven too, 
Doubled-lived in reo-ions new? 

Yes, and those of heaven commune 

With the spheres of sun and moon; 

Willi the noise of fountains wondrous, 

And the parle of voices thund'rous; 

With the whisper of heaven's trees 

And one another, in soft ease 

Seated on Elysian lawns, 

Browsed by none but Dian's fawns; 

Underneath large bkie-bells tented, 

Where the daisies are rose-scented, 

And the rose herself has o^ot 

Perfume which on earth is not; 

Where the ni^htinorale doth sins: 

Not a senseless, tranced thing, 

1 Felicia Dorothea Hemans, born in Liverpool in 1794, 
\Tas the daughter of a merchant, and was married in 1812 to 
Captain Hemans of the Fourth Regiment, who not long after 
deserted her and their children. Mrs. Hemans then returned to 
her family, and devoted herself to the education of her sons. 
She died in 1835. Such time as she could spare from house- 
hold cares was devoted to literature, and she published a num 
ber of works both in verse and in prose. 



TO THE POETS. 177 

But divine melodious truth ; 
Philosophic numbers smooth ; 
Tales and golden histories 
Of heaven and its mysteries. 

Thus ye live on high, and then 
On the earth ye live again ; 
And the souls ye left behind you 
Teach us here the way to find you, 
Where your other souls are joying, 
Never slumber 'd, never cloying. 
Here, your earth-born souls still speak 
To mortals, of their little week; 
Of their sorrows and delio-hts : 
Of their passions and their spites; 
Of their glory and their shame; 
What doth strengthen and what maim. 
Thus ye teach us, every day. 
Wisdom, though fled far away. 

Bards of Passion and of Mirth, 
Ye have left your souls on earth ! 
Ye have souls in heaven too. 
Double-lived in regions new ! 

John Keats.^ 



1 John Keats, the son of a stable-keeper, born in London 
in 1796, was educated at a classical school in Enfield, and in his 
fifteenth j^ear apprenticed to a surgeon at Edmonton. He soon, 
however, abandoned medicine for literature. His first volume 
was treated by the critics with- crushing severity, which preyed 
.ipon his mind and injured his health. After the publication of 
a second volume of poems, which fully redeemed the promise 
\i the first, he went abroad for his health, and died at Rome 
in 1821. Much of the little poetrj^ he left is of most exquisite 
beauty, and entitles him to a high place among the group of 
12 



178 



BALLADS AXD LYRICS. 



THE CLOUD. 



I. 

I BRi2s'G fresh showers for the thirsting flowers, 

From the seas and the streams; 
I bear light shades for the leaves when laid 

In their noon-day dreams. 
From my win^rs are shaken the dews that waken 

The sweet buds every one, 
When rocke<l to rest on their mother's breast, 

As she dances about the sun. 
I wield the flail of the lashing hail, 

And whiten the green plains under, 
And then again I dissolve it in rain, 

And laugh as I pass in thunder. 

II. 

I sift the snow on the mountains btjow. 

And their great pines groan aghast; 
And all the night 't is my pillow white, 

While 1 sleep in the arms of the blast. 
Sublime on the towers of my skiey bowers, 

Lightning my pilot sirs; 
In a cavern under is fettered the thunder, 

It struggles and howls at fits ; 
Over earth and ocean with gentle motion 

This pilot is guiding me. 
Lured by the love of the genii that move 

In the depths of the purple sea ; 
Over the rills, and the crags, and the hills, 

Over the lakes and the plains, 

writer? who made the beginning of the nineteenth century the 
most brilliant period of English literature, with the exception of 
thmt of Elizabeth. 



I 



I 

I THE CLOUD, 179 

f Wherever he dream, under mountain or stream, 

The sph'it he loves remains; 
And I all the while bask in heaven's blue smile, 
Whilst he is dissolving in rains. 

III. 

The sanguine sunrise, with his meteor eyes, 

And his burning plumes outspread, \ 

Leaps on the back of my sailing rack, ^ 

When the morning star shines dead. j 

As on the jag of a mountain crag, J 

Which an earthquake rocks and swings, ^ 

An eagle alit one moment may sit 5 

In the lio'ht of its grolden wino;s. • 

And when sunset may breathe, from the lit sea beneath, 

Its ardors of rest and of love, 
And the crimson pall of eve may fall 

From the depth of heaven above, 
With wings folded I rest, on mine airy nest, 
• As still as a brooding dove. 

IV. 

That orbed maiden, with white fire laden, 
Whom mortals call the moon. 
Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like floor. 

By the midnight breezes strewn ; 
And wherever the beat of her unseen feet. 

Which only the angels hear, 
May have broken the woof of my tent's thin roof, 
\ The stars peep behind her and peer ; 

\ And I laugh to see them whirl and flee, 

j Like a swarm of golden bees, 

" When I widen the rent in my wind-built tent, 

Till the calm rivers, lakes, and seas, 
j Like strips of the sky fallen through me on high, 

\ Are each paved with the moon and these. 



180 BALLADS AND LYRICS. 

V. 

I bind the sun's throne with the burnino; zone, 

And the moon's with a girdle of pearl ; 
The volcanoes are dim, and the stars reel and swim, 

When the whirlwinds my banner unfurl. 
From cape to cape, with a bridge-like shape, 

Over a torrent sea, 
Sunbeam-proof, I hang like a roof, 

The mountains its columns be. 
The triumphal arch through which I march, 

With hurricane, fire, and snow. 
When the powers of the air are chained to my chair, 

Is the million- colored bow ; 
• The sphere-fire above its soft colors wove, 

While the moist earth was lauMiinor below. 

VI. 

I am the daughter of earth and water. 

And the nursling of the sky : 
I pass through the pores of the ocean and shores ; 

I change, but I cannot die. 
For after the rain, when with never a stain 

The pavilion of heaven is bare. 
And the winds and sunbeams, with their convex gleams, 

Build up the blue dome of air, 
I silently laugh at my own cenotaph. 

And out of the caverns of rain, 
Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from the tomb, 

I arise and unbuild it again. 

Percy Bysshe Shelley.^ 

1 Percy Bysshe Shelley, born in 1792, was the son of Sir 
Timoth}^ Shelley, and of ancient family. He was educated at 
Eton and went thence to University College, Oxford, whence he 
was expelled in 1811 for publishing a tract entitled A Defence 
y Atheism. He then wrote his first important poem, Queen 



PRO PATRIA MORI. 181 



PRO PATRIA MORI. 

When he who adores thee has left but the name 

Of his fault and his sorrows behind, 
O ! say, wilt thou weep, when they darken the fame 

Of a life that for thee was resio-ned ? 
Yes, weep, and however my foes may condemn. 

Thy tears shall efface their decree; 
For, Heaven can witness, though guilty to them, 

I have been but too faithful to thee. 

With thee were the dreams of my earliest love ; 

Every thought of my reason was thine : 
In my last humble prayer to the Spirit above 

Thy name shall be mingled with mine ! 
O ! blest are the lovers and friends who shall live 

The days of thy glory to see ; 
But the next dearest blessing^ that Heaven can ojive 

Is the pride of thus dying for thee. 

Thomas Moore. 

Mab, and not long after married Miss Harriet Westbrooke. This 
marriage proved very unhappy, and Shelley and his wife soon 
separated. In 1816 Mrs. Shelley committed suicide, and Shelley 
then married Mary, the daughter of the celebrated William God- 
win and his hardly less celebrated wife, Mary Wollstonecraft. 
This second marriage was a happy one. Shelley went to Italy, 
where he passed the rest of his life supported by an allowance 
from his father, and where he was constantly in the society of 
Lord Byron. In July, 1822, when he was out sailing, a squall 
came up, the boat capsized, and Shelley and his companions 
were drowned. His writings are almost wholly in vei-se, and 
many of his poems are of the most perfect and finished beauty. 
His mind, however, was morbid almost to the verge of disease, 
»nd thii? gives a peculiar tone to all his poetry. 



Je9>nam 



182 BALLADS AND LYRICS. 



THE LANDING OF THE PILGRIM FATHERS. f 

The breakins: waves dashed liigjh 

On a stern and rock-bound coast, 
And the woods, against a stormy sky, 

Then' giant branches tost ; 

And the heavy nio^ht huno; dark 

The hills and waters o'er, 
When a band of exiles moored their bark 

On the wild New England shore. 

Not as the conqueror comes, 

They, the true-hearted, came, \ 

Not with the roll of the stirring drums, 

And the trumpet that sings of fame ; 

Not as the flying come, 

In silence and in fear, — 
They shook the depths of the desert gloom 

With their hymns of lofty cheer. 

Amidst the storm they sang, 

And the stars heard, and the sea ! 
And the soundino; aisles of the dim woods ranor 

To the anthem of the free ! 

The ocean-eagle soared 

From his nest by the white wave's foam, 
And the rocking pines of the forest roared, — 

This was their welcome home I 

There were men with hoary hair 
Amidst that pilgrim band, — 



i- 



EDWARD THE BLACK PRINCE, 183 

Why had they come to wither there 
I Away from their childhood's land? 

There was woman's fearless eye, 

Lit by her deep love's truth ; 
There was manhood's brow, serenely high, 

And the fiery heart of youth. 

What sought they thus afar? 

Bright jewels of the mine? 
The wealth of seas, the spoils of war? 

They sought a faith's pure shrine ! 

Ay, call it holy ground, 

The soil where first they trod ! 
They have left unstained what there they found — 

Freedom to worship God! 

Felicia Hemans. 



TO THE MEMORY OF EDWARD THE BLACK 
PRINCE. 

O FOR the voice of that wild horn, | 

On Fontarabian echoes borne, 

The dying hero's call. 
That told imperial Charlemagne, 
How Paynim sons of swarthy Spain 

Had wrought his champion's fall. 

Sad over earth and ocean sounding, 
And Enorland's distant cliffs astoundins:. 
Such are the notes should say 



••♦ii*i"M*2::* 



184 BALLADS AND LYRICS. 

How Britain's hope and France's fear, 
Victor of Cressy and Poitier, 

In Bourdeaux dying lay. 

"Raise my faint head, my squires," he said, 
" And let the casement be displayed, 
That I may see once more 
The splendor of the setting sun 
Gleam on thy mirrored wave, Garonne, 
And Blaye's empurpled shore. 

" Like me, he sinks to Glory's sleep, 
His fall the dews of evening steep. 

As if in sorrow shed. 
So soft shall fall the trickling tear. 
When England's maids and matrons hear 

Of their Black Edward dead. 

" And though my sun of glory set. 
Nor France nor Enoland shall foro-et 

The terror of my name ; 
And oft shall Britain's heroes rise. 
New planets in these southern skies. 

Through clouds of blood and flame." 
Sir Walter Scott. 

Rob Ray, 



THE ISLES OF GREECE. 

The isles of Greece, the isles of Greece ! 

Where burning Sappho loved and sung, 
Where grew the arts of war and peace, 

Where Delos rose, and Phoebus sprung I 



THE ISLES OF GREECE. 185 

Eternal summer gilds them yet, 
But all, except their sun, is set. 

The Scian and the Teian muse, 

The hero's harp, the lover's lute, 
Have found the fame your shores refuse; 

Their place of birth alone is mute 
To sounds which echo further west 
Than your sire's " Islands of the Blest." 

The mountains' look on Marathon, — 

And Marathon looks on the sea; 
And musing there an hour alone, 

I dream'd that Greece might still be free; 
For standino^ on the Persians' orave, 
I could not deem myself a slave. 

A King sate on the rocky brow 

Which looks o'er sea-born Salamis; 

And ships, by thousands, lay below. 
And men in nations, — all were his! 

He counted them at break of day, — 

And when the sun set where were they ? 

And where are they ? and where art tliQ u, 
My country ? On thy voiceless shore, 

The heroic lay is tuneless now. 
The heroic bosom beats no more ! 

And must thy lyre, so long divine, 

Degenerate into hands like mine ? 

'Tis something, in the dearth of fame, 
Thouo'h link'd am on g^ a fetter'd race, 

To feel at least a patriot's shame, 
Even as I sing, suffuse my face; 



186 BALLADS AND LYRICS. 

For what is left the poet here ? 

For Greeks a blush, — for Greece a tear. 

Must ice but weep o'er days more blest ? 

Must ive but blush? Our fathers bled. 
Earth! render back from out thy breast 

A remnant of our Spartan dead! 
Of the three hundred grant but three, 
To make a new Thermopylae! 

What, silent still? and silent all? 

Ah! no ; the voices of the dead 
Sound like a distant torrent's fall. 

And answer, " Let one living head, 
But one, arise, — we come, we come ! ^* 
'T is but the livuio; w'ho are dumb. 

In vain — in vain ! strike other chords; 

Fill high the cup with Samian wine ! 
Leave battles to the Turkish hordes. 

And shed the blood of Scio's vine ! 
Hark ! rising to the ignoble call, 
How answers each bold Bacchanal ! 

You have the Pvrrhic dance as vet, 
Where is the Pyrrhic phalanx gone ? 

Of two such lessons, why forget 
The nobler and the manlier one ? 

You have the letters Cadmus gave, — 

Think ye he meant them for a slave ? 

Fill high the bowl with Samian wine ! 

We will not think of themes like these! 
It made Anacreon's song divine : 

He served — but served Polycrates — 



THE ISLES OF GREECE. 187 

A tyrant; but our masters then 
Were still, at least, our countrymen. 

The tyrant of the Chersonese 

Was freedom's best and bravest friend ; 
That tyrant was Miltiades! 

0! that the present hour would lend 
Another despot of the kind! 
Such chains as his were sure to bind. 

Fill high the bowl with Samian wine ! 

On Suli's rock and Parga's shore 
Exists the remnant of a line 

Such as the Doric mothers bore; 
And there, perhaps, some seed is sown, 
The Heracleidan blood mio-ht own. 

o 

Trust not for freedom to the Franks, — 
They have a King who buys and sells: 

In native swords and native ranks 
The only hope of courage dwells ; 

But Turkish force and Latin fraud 

Would break your shield, however broad. 

Fill higrh the bowl with Samian wine! 

Our virgins dance beneath the shade; 
I see their glorious black eyes shine; 

But orazino; on each orlowino; maid, 
My own the burning tear-drop laves. 
To think such breasts must suckle slaves. 

Place me on Sunium's marbled steep, 
Where nothing, save the waves and I, 

May hear our mutual murmurs sweep; 
There, swan-like, let me sing and die: 



188 BALLADS AND LYRICS. 

A land of slaves shall ne'er be mine, — 
Dash down yon cup of Samian wine! 

Lord Byron. 



HESTER. 

When maidens such as Hester die, 
Their place ye may not well supply, 
Though ye among a thousand try 

With vain endeavor. 
A month or more has she been dead, 
Yet cannot I by force be led 
To think upon the wormy bed 

And her tosjether. 

A springy motion in her gait, 

A rising step, did indicate 

Of pride and joy no common rate 

That flush'd her spirit: 
I know not by what name beside 
I shall it call: if 'twas not pride, 
It was a joy to that allied, 

She did inherit. 

Her parents held the Quaker rule 
Which doth the human feeling cool; 
But she was train 'd in Nature's school, 

Nature had blest her. 
A waking eye, a prying mind, 
A heart that stirs, is hard to bind; 
A hawk's keen sight ye cannot blind, 

Ye could not Hester. 




"A widow bird sat mourning for her love." See p. 189. 



WINTER. 189 

My sprightly neighbor! gone before 
To that unknown and silent shore, 
Shall we not meet, as heretofore 

Some summer morning, — 
When from thy cheerful eyes a ray 
Hath struck a bliss upon the day, 
A bliss that would not go away, 

A sweet fore-warnino;? 

Charles Lamb.^ 



WINTER. 

A WIDOW bird sate mourning for her Love 

Upon a wintry bough; 
The frozen wind crept on above, 

The freezing stream below. 

There was no leaf upon the forest bare, 

No flower upon the ground, 
And little motion in the air 

Except the uiill-wheei's sound. 

Percy Bysshe Shelley. 

1 Charles Lamb, born in London in 1775, was educated at 
Christ's Hoj^pital, and in 1792 obtained a situation in the East 
India house, which he held until 1825, when he retired on a pen- 
sion. His life was devoted to the guardianship of his sister, a 
woman of much talent, who assisted him in his literary work 
but who was subject to fits of insanity. The hard monotony of 
an accountant's life was varied and relieved by excursions into 
various fields of literature. The best of Lamb's works are the 
famous Essays of Elia, abounding in humor and clever criticism 
of character and manners. Lamb was also a most charming 
companion, very witty, and famous as a story teller. He died 
^a 1834. 



i90 BALLADS AXD LYRICS. 



TO THOMAS MOORE. 

My boat is on the shore. 

And my bark is on the sea; 
But before I go, Tom Moore, 

Here 's a double health to thee! 

Here 's a sigh to those Avho love me, 
And a smile to those who hate; 

And, whatever sky 's above me, 
Here's a heart for every fate. 

Though the ocean roar around me. 

Yet it still shall bear me on ; 
Though a desert should surround me, 

It hath springs that may be won. 

Were 't the last drop in the well. 

As I gasp'd upon the brink, 
Ere my fainting spirit fell, 

'Tis to thee that I would drink. 

With that water, as this wine. 

The libation I would pour 
Should be — peace with thine and mine, 

And a health to thee, Tom Moore. 

Lord Byron. 



BONNY DUNDEE. 191 



BONNY DUNDEE.i 

To the Lords of Convention, 't was CI aver' se who 

spoke, 
*' Ere the Kings's crown shall fall there are crowns to 

* be broke ; 
So let each cavalier who loves honor and me 
Come follow the bonnet of Bonny Dundee. 

Conae fill up my cup, come fill up my can, 
Come saddle your horses and call up your men ; 
Come open the West Port and let me gang free. 
And it 's room for the bonnets of Bonny Dundee." 

1 John Graham of Claverhouse, Viscount Dundee, was born 
about the year 1650. He was distinguished by his military tal- 
ents and dashing exploits, but was a man of hard and cruel 
temper. He served in the Dutch army, and returned to Scot- 
land in 1677, where he engaged in the work of suppressing the 
Covenanters. When James H. fled, Dundee espoused his cause 
against William of Orange. He was in Edinburgh, not having 
yet declared himself, and complained to the Convention then sit- 
ting there, that he was in danger of assassination by the Cov- 
enanters. The Duke of Hamilton, anxious to be rid of him, 
treated him with contempt. Dundee thereupon left the Conven- 
tion in a rage, and, gathering some fifty horsemen, rode through 
the city, passing by the Grassmarket, where executions took 
place previous to 1784. He stopped at the castle and had a 
conference with the Duke of Gordon, but could not persuade 
that nobleman to join him. Meantime the Wiiig followers of 
Hamilton and Sir John Dalrymple, from the western counties, 
poured into the streets. Dundee, with his troopers, leaving the 
castle, dashed through the crowd, got out of the city unopposed, 
and made his way to the Highlands, where he raised the ch\ns. 
With these forces he returned and defeated the English at Killie- 
crankie, where he fell in the moment of victory. This ballad 
describes his departure from Edinburgh, and the next poem nar- 
rates the circumstances of his victory and death. 



192 



BONNY DUNDEE. 



Dundee he is mounted, he rides up the street, 

The bells are rung backward, the drums they are 

beat; 
But the Provost, douce man, said, "Just e'en let 

him be, 
The gude town is weel quit of that Deil of Dundee." 

As he rode down the sanctified bends of the Bow, 

Ilk carline was flyting and shaking her pow ; 

But the young plants of grace they look'd couthie and 

slee. 
Thinking, luck to thy bonnet, thou Bonny Dundee ! 

With sour - featured Whigs the Grassmarket was 

cramm'd, 
As if half the West had set tryst to be hang'd. 
There was spite in each look, there was fear in each ee, 
As they watch'd for the bonnets of Bonny Dundee. 

These cowls of Kilmarnock had spits and had spears, 

And lang-hafted gullies to kill Cavaliers ; 

But they shrunk to close-heads and the Causeway was 

free. 
At the toss of the bonnet of Bonny Dundee. 

He spurr'd to the foot of the proud Castle rock, 

And with the gay Gordon he gallantly spoke ; 

" Let Mons Meg and her marrows speak twa words or 

three, 
For the love of the bonnet of Bonny Dundee." 

The Gordon demands of him which way he goes — 
*' Where'er shall direct me the shade of Montrose I 
Your Grace in short space shall hear tidings of me, 
Or that low lies the bonnet of Bonny Dundee. 



BONNY DUNDEE, 192a 

** There are hills beyond Pentland and lands beyond 

Forth, 
If there's Lords in the Lowlands, there 's Chiefs in the 

North ; 
There are wild Duniewassals three thousand times three. 
Will cry hoighf for the bonnet of Bonny Dundee. 

i. *' There 's brass on the taro;et of barken 'd bull-hide, 

- There 's steel in the scabbard that dangles beside; 

The brass shall be burnished, the steel shall flash free 
i' At a toss of the bonnet of Bonny Dundee. 

, " Away to the hills, to the caves, to the rocks — 

i Ere I own an usurper, I '11 couch with the fox ; 

i; And tremble, false Whigs, in the midst of your glee, 

You have not seen the last of my bonnet and me. 



o 
J? 



He waved his proud hand, and the trumpets were 

blown, 
The kettle-drums clash' d, and the horsemen rode on, 
Till on Ravelston's cliffs and on Clermiston*s lee, 
Died away the wild war notes of Bonny Dundee. 

Come fill up my cup, come fill up my can, 
Come saddle the horses and call up the men. 
Come open your gates, and let me gae free, 
For it 's up with the bonnets of Bonny Dundee. 
Sir Walter Scott, 

The Boom of DevorgoiL 



1925 



BALLADS AND LYRICS. 



THE BURIAL-MARCH OF DUNDEE.^ 



Sound the fife, and cry the slogan; 

Let the pibroch shake the air 
With its wild triumphal music, 

Worthy of the freight we bear. 
Let the ancient hills of Scotland 

Hear once more the battle-sono^ 
Swell within their glens and valleys 

As the clansmen march alon^! 
Never from the field of combat, 

Never from the deadly fray, 
Was a nobler trophy carried 

Than we bring with us to-day ; 
Never, since the valiant Douglas 

On his dauntless bosom bore 
Good Kinor Robert's heart — the priceless 

To our dear Redeemer's shore! 



1 After leaying Edinburgh. Dundee betook himself to his own 
house, and thence to the mountains. The clans flocked to his 
standard, and General Mackay, commanding the forces of the 
Prince of Orange and of the Convention, advanced against him. 
The armies met just outside the dangerous pass of Killiecrankie. 
When the word was given to advance, the clans rushed forward 
with headlong impetuosity. They received the fire of the reg- 
ular troops without tlinching, poured in a volley, threw away 
their muskets, and fell upon the English forces with their broad- 
swords. Their victory was immediate, and the English gave 
way in utter confusion. Dundee was separated in some way 
from his cavalry, and was last seen standing up in his stirrups 
waving his sword, and with about sixteen gentlemen followinf:^ 
him, disappeared in the smoke, leading the clans. When the 
Highlanders returned from the pursuit, they found him lying 
on the field, fatally wounded. The death of Dundee was the 
downfall of all the hopes of James II. in Scotland. 



I- 



THE BURIAL-MARCH OF DUNDEE. 193 



Lo! we brino' with us the hero ; 

Lo! we bring the conquering Graeme, 
Crowned as best beseems a victor 

From the altar of his fame; 
Fresh S-nd bleedino; from the battle 

Whence his spirit took its flight, 
Midst the crashing charge of squadrons, 

And the thunder of the fight ! 
Strike, I say, the notes of triumph. 

As we march o'er moor and lea! 
Js there any here will venture 

To bewail our dead Dundee ? 
Let the widows of the traitors 

Weep until their eyes are dim ! 
Wail ye may full well for Scotland, — 

Let none dare to mourn for him! 
See ! above his glorious body 

Lies the royal banner's fold ; 
See ! his valiant blood is mino-led 

With its crimson and its fjold : 
See how calm he looks, and stately, 

Like a warrior on his shield, 
Waitino' till the flush of mornino; 

Breaks alono; the battle-field! 
See — O never more, my comrades, 

Shall we see that falcon eye 
Redden with its inward liojhtnino^, 

As the hour of fig^ht drew nio;hl 
Never shall we hear the voice that, 

Clearer than the trumpet's call. 
Bade us strike for King and country, 

Bade us win the field, or fall! 
13 



Bcmii 



194 



BALLADS AND LYRICS. 



II. 

On the heights of Killiecrankle 

Yester-morn our army lay : 
Slowly rose the mist in columns 

From the river's broken way; 
Hoarsely roared the swollen torrent, 

And the pass was wrapt in gloom, 
When the clansmen rose together 

From their lair amidst the broom. 
Then we belted on our tartans, 

And our bonnets down we drew, 
And we felt our broadswords' edgres, 

And we proved them to be true ; 
And we prayed the prayer of soldiers, 

And we cried the gathering-cry. 
And we clasped the hands of kinsmen 

And we swore to do or die! 
Then our leader rose before us 

On his war-horse black as night, — 
Well the Cameronian rebels 

Knew that chars^er in the fio;ht! — 
And a cry of exultation 

From the bearded warriors rose; 
For we loved the house of Claver'se, 

And we thought of good Montrose. 
But he raised his hand for silence : . 

" Soldiers! I have sworn a vow : 
Ere the evening star shall glisten 

On Schehallion's lofty brow, 
Either we shall rest in triumph, 

Or another of the Graemes 
Shall have died in battle-harness 

For his country and King James! 
Think upon the Royal Martyr — 
Think of what his race endure — 



;g-«^-T7— .-* 




•«S«itt»»90«L*E*W: 



THE BURIAL-MARCH OF DUNDEE. 195 

Think of him whom butchers murdered 

On the field of Mao;us Muir: 
By his sacred blood I charge ye, 

By the ruined hearth and shrine, 
By the blighted hopes of Scotland, 

By your injuries and mine, 
Strike this day as if the anvil 

Lay beneath your blows the while. 
Be they covenanting traitors, 

Or the brood of false Argyle ! 
Strike ! and drive the trembling rebels 

Backwards o'er the stormy Forth ; 
Let them tell their pale Convention 

How they fared within the North. 
Let them tell that Highland honor 

Is not to be bought nor sold, 
That we scorn their prince's anger 

iAs we loathe his foreisfn o;old. 
I Strike ! and when the fight is over, 

If ye look in vain for me, 
Where the dead are lying thickest, 
Search for him that was Dundee ! *' 

III. 

Loudly then the hills reechoed 

With our answer to his call. 
But a deeper echo sounded 

In the bosoms of us all. 
For the lands of wild Breadalbane, 

Not a man who heard him speak 
Would that day have left the battle. 

Burning eye and flushing cheek 
Told the clansmen's fierce emotion, 

And they harder drew their breath ; 
For their souls were strong within them. 



196 BALLADS AND LYRICS. 

Stronger than the grasp of death. 
Soon we heard a challenge -trumpet 

Sounding in the pass below, 
And the distant tramp of horses, 

And the voices of the foe : 
Down we crouched amid the bracken, 

Till the Lowland ranks drew near, 
Panting like the hounds in summer, 

When they scent the stately deer. 
From the dark defile emerorinoj, 

Next we saw the squadrons come, 
Leslie's foot and Leven's troopers 

Marching to the tuck of drum ; 
Through the scattered wood of birches, 

O'er the broken ground and heath, 
Wound the long battalion slowly, 

Till they gained the plain beneath ; 
Then we bounded from our covert. 

Judo-e how looked the Saxons then. 
When they saw the rugged mountain 

Start to life with armfed men ! 
Like a tempest down the ridges 

Swept the hurricane of steel, 
Rose the slogan of Macdonald, 

Flashed the broadsword of Lochiell ! 
Vainly sped the withering volley 

'Mono^st the foremost of our band: 
On we poured until we met them, 

Foot to foot, and hand to hand. 
Horse and man went down like drift-wood 

When the floods are black at Yule, 
And their carcasses are whirling 

In the Garry's deepest pool. 
Horse and man went down before us, — 

Living: foe there tarried none 



THE BURIAL-MARCH OF DUNDEE, 197 

On the field of Killiecrankie, 

When that stubborn fight was done I 

IV. 

And the evenino; star was shininsc 

On Schehallion's distant head, 
When we wiped our bloody broadswords, 

And returned to count the dead. 
There we found him gashed and gory, 

Stretched upon the cumbered plain, 
As he told us where to seek him, 

In the thickest of the slain. 
And a smile was on his visage, 

For within his dying ear 
Pealed the joyful note of triumph. 

And the clansmen's clamorous cheer : 
So, amidst the battle's thunder. 

Shot, and steel, and scorching flame, 
In the glory of his manhood 

Passed the spirit of the Graeme ! 

V. 

Open wide the vaults of AthoU, 

Where the bones of heroes rest ; 
Open wide the hallowed portals 

To receive another sjuestl 
Last of Scots, and last of freemen, 

Last of all that dauntless race 
Who would rather die unsullied 

Than outlive the land's disgrrace! 
O thou lion-hearted warrior I 

Reck not of the after- time: 
Honor may be deemed dishonor, 

Loyalty be called a crime. 
Sleep in peace with kindred ashes 



198 BALLADS AND LYRICS. 

Of the noble and the true, 
Hands that never failed their country, 

Hearts that never baseness knew. 
Sleep! — and till the latest trumpet 

Wakes the dead from earth and sea, 
Scotland shall not boast a braver 

Chieftain than our own Dundee! 
William Edmondstouxe Aytoun. 



PAST AND PRESENT. 

I REMEMBER, I remember 

The house where I was born, 
The little window where the sun 

Came peeping in at morn; 
He never came a wink too soon, 

Nor broug^ht too lono; a dav; 
But now, I often wish the nio-ht 

Had borne my breath away. 

I remember, I remember 
The roses, red and white. 

The violets, and the Hly-cups — 
Those flowers made of light! 



1 William Edmoxdstoune Aytoun, born in 1813, was a 
member of the Edinburgh bar. He became professor of liter- 
ature and belles-lettres in the University of Edinburgh, and 
editor of Blackwood^s Magazine. Besides his fine Lays of the 
Scottish Cavaliers, from which the two poems given in this col- 
lection are taken, he wrote a number of clever parodies under 
the name of "Bon Gaultier." He has also written on historv 
and literature. He died in 18G5. 



f 



PAST AND PRESENT. 199 

The lilacs where the robin built, 

And where my brother set 
The laburnum on his birthday, — 

The tree is living yet ! 

I remember, I remember 

Where I was used to swing, 
And thought the air must rush as fresh 

To swallows on the wing; 
My spirit flew in feathers then 

That is so heavy now, 
And summer pools could hardly cool 

The fever on my brow. 

I remember, I remember 

The fir trees dark and high; 
I used to think their slender tops 

Were close against the sky: 
It was a childish io-norance, 

But now 'tis little joy 
To know I 'm farther off from Heaven 

Than when I was a boy. 

Thomas Hood.^ 

1 Thomas Hood, the famous humorist, was bom in 1798. | 

He was placed at an early age in a merchant's counting-house, | 

but soon abandoned it for literature. He wrote for and edited I 

magazines, and was an early contributor to Punch. His life 8 

was a hard struggle with poverty and ill-health. He wrote | 

much both in verse and in prose. His writings are chiefly hu- | 

morous, but he had a strong pathetic vein, and some of his seri- i 
ous poems have attained an almost unbounded popularity'. He 
iied in 1845. 



i 



200 



BALLADS AND LYRICS. 



THE LOST LEADER. 

Just for a handful of silver he left us, 

Just for a riband to stick in his coat, — 
Found the one gift of which fortune bereft us, 

Lost all the others she lets us devote; 
They, with the gold to give, doled him out silver, 

So much was theirs who so little allowed: 
How all our copper had gone for his service! 

Rags — were they purple, his heart had been proud . 
We that had loved him so, followed him, honored him. 

Lived in his mild and magnificent eve, 
Learned his oreat lanofuaiie, cauoht his clear accents, 

Made him our pattern to live and to die! 
Shakespeare was of us, Milton was for us, 

Burns, Shelley, were with us, — they watch from 
their (graves! 
He alone breaks from the van and the freemen, 

He alone sinks to the rear and the slaves! 



We shall march prospering, — not thro' his presence; 

Songs may inspirit us, — not from his lyre; 
Deeds will be done, — while he boasts his quiescence, 

Still bidding crouch whom the rest bade aspire: 
Blot out his name, then, record one lost soul more. 

One task more declined, one more footpath untrod, 
One more devils'-triumph and sorrow for angels. 

One wrong more to man, one more insult to God! 
Life's night begins! let him never come back to us! 

There would be doubt, hesitation, and pain. 
Forced praise on our part, — the glimmer of twilight. 

Never glad, confident morning again! 
Best fight on well, for we taught him, — strike gallantly, 

Menace our heart ere we master his own; 



EOME-TROUGHTS, FROM THE SEA, 201 

Then let him receive the new knowledge, and wait us, 
Pardoned in heaven, the first by the throne! 

Robert Browning.^ 



HOME-THOUGHTS, FROM THE SEA. 

Nobly, nobly Cape Saint Vincent to the northwest 

died away ; 
Sunset ran, one glorious blood-red, reeking into Cadiz 

Bay ; 
Bluish 'mid the burnins^ water, full in face Trafalo;ar 

lay; 
In the dimmest northeast distance dawned Gibraltar, 

grand and gray ; 
'' Here and here did England help me : how can I help 

England? '' say. 
Whoso turns as I, this evening, turn to God to praise 

and pray. 
While Jove's planet rises yonder, silent over Africa. 

Robert Browning. 

1 Robert Browning, with the exception of Tennyson the 
most famous of living English poets, was born in Camberwell, 
near London, in 1812 He was educated at the University of 
London, and pubhshed his first important poem, Paracelsus^ in 
1835. In 1846 he married the poetess Elizabeth Barrett. This 
poem of The Lost Leader refers to William Wordsworth, who 
changed his politics from the Liberal to the Tory side. 



202 



BALLADS AND LYRICS. 



OLD mONSlDES.i 

Ay, tear her tattered ensign down I 

Lono- has it waved on hi^h, 
And many an eye has danced to see 

That banner in the sky ; 
Beneath it rung the battle shout, 

And burst the cannon's roar; 
The meteor of the ocean air 

Shall sweep the clouds no more! 

Her deck, once red with heroes' blood, 

Where knelt the vanquished foe, 
When winds were hurrying o'er the flood, 

And waves were white below, 
No more shall feel the victor's tread, 

Or know the conquered knee, — 
The harpies of the shore shall pluck 

The eaofle of the sea! 



O better that her shattered hulk 

Should sink beneath the wave ; 
Her thunders shook the mighty deep, 

And there should be her grave; 
Nail to the mast her holy flag, 

Set every threadbare sail, 
And give her to the god of storms, 

The liorhtnino; and the orale. 

Oliver W^endell Holmes.^ 

1 The famous American ship of war, the Constitution, was 
called Old Ironsides in allusion to her victories over the English 
iu the war of 1812, and this poem was called forth by a proposal 
which was made to break her up and sell the iron and timber. 

2 Oliver Wendell Holmes, son of the Rev. Abiel Holmes, 



THE WRECK OF THE HESPERUS. 203 



THE WRECK OF THE HESPERUS. 

It was the schooner Hesperus, 

That sailed the wintry sea, 
And the skipper had taken his little daughter, 

To bear him company. 

Blue were her eyes as the fairy-flax, 

Her cheeks like the dawn of day, 
And her bosom white as the hawthorn buds, 

That ope in the month of May. 

The skipper he stood beside the helm, 

His pipe was in his mouth, 
And he watched how the veering flaw did blow 

The smoke now west, now south. 

Then up and spake an old sailor. 
Had sailed to the Spanish Main, 
*' I pray thee, put into yonder port, 
For I fear a hurricane. 

" Last nio-ht the moon had a orolden ringr, 
And to-nig^ht no moon we see ! " 
The skipper, he blew a whiff from his pipe, 
And a scornful laugjh lauo-hed he. 

vv-as born in Cambridge, Mass., in 1809, and graduated at Harvard 
College in 1829. He studied medicine in Europe, returned to 
the United States, and accepted the professorship of anatomy 
in Dartmouth College in 1838. In 1847 he became professor of 
anatomy in the Harvard Medical School, a position he still 
holds, and has, since his acceptance of that post, lived in Bos- 
ton. His name, one of the most distinguished in our literature, 
is familiar to all Americans as that of a poet, critic, novelist, 
and humorist. 



204 BALLADS AXD LYRICS. 

Colder and louder blew the wind, 

A gale from the northeast ; 
The snow fell hissino- in the brine, 

And the billows frothed like yeast. 

Down came the storm, and smote amain 

The vessel in its strength; 
She shuddered and paused, like a frighted steed, 

Then leaped her cable's length. 

*^ Come hither I come hither ! my little daughter, 
And do not tremble so; 
For I can weather the roughest gale 
That ever wind did blow/' 

He wrapped her warm in his seaman's coat 

Agrainst the stinirincr blast ; 
He cut a rope from a broken spar, 

And bound her to the mast. 



(( 



O father ! I hear the church-bells ring, 
O say, what may it be ? " 
*• 'T is a fog-bell on a rock-bound coast! ' 
And he steered for the open sea. 

" O father ! I hear the sour.d of guns, 

O say, what may it be? " 
*' Some ship in distress, that cannot live 

In such an angry seal " 

'* O father! I see a gleaming light, 
O say, what may it be ? '* 
But the father answered never a word, 
A frozen corpse was he. 



+ 



« 



THE WRECK OF THE BESPEBim. 205 

Lashed to the helm, all stiff and stark, t 

With his face turned to the skies, 
The lantern sfleamed throusrh the gleamins snow 

On his fixed and glassy eyes. 

Then the maiden clasped her hands and prayed 

That sav^d she might be; 
And she thought of Christ, who stilled the wave, 

On the Lake of Galilee. 

And fast through the midnight dark and drear, 

Through the whistling sleet and snow, 
Like a sheeted ghost, the vessel swept 

Tow'rds the reef of Norman's Woe. 

And ever the fitful gusts between 

A sound came from the land; 
It was the sound of the trampHng surf 

On the rocks and the hard sea-sand. 

The breakers were right beneath her bows, 

She drifted a dreary wreck. 
And a whooping billow swept the crew 

Like icicles from her deck. 

She struck where the white and fleecy waves 

Looked soft as carded wool, 
But the cruel rocks, they gored her side 

Like the horns of an angry bull. 

Her rattling shrouds, all sheathed in ice. 

With the masts went by the board; 
Like a vessel of glass, she stove and sank, 

Ho ! ho ! the breakers roared ! 



206 BALLADS AND LYRICS. 

At daybreak, on the bleak sea-beach, 

A fisherman stood aghast, 
To see the form of a maiden fair, 

Lashed close to a driftino- mast. 

o 

The salt sea was frozen on her breast, 

The salt tears in her eyes ; 
And he saw her hair, like the brown sea-weed, 

On the billows fall and rise. 

Such was the wreck of the Hesperus, 

In the midnight and the snow I 
Christ save us all from a death like this, 

On the reef of Norman's Woe. 

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.^ 



THE SKELETON IN ARMOK. 

'* Speak! speak! thou fearful guest! 
Who, with thy hollow breast 
Still in rude armor drest, 
Comest to daunt me! 

1 Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, son of the Hon. 
Stephen Longfellow, was bom in Portland, Maine, in 1807, and 
graduated at Bowdoin College in 1825. He studied law for a 
short time and was soon after appointed professor of modern 
languages at Bowdoin. He then travelled abroad for three 
years, returning in 1829. In 1835 he was appointed professor 
of belles-lettres at Harvard College, a position which he re- 
signed in 1854. On his appointment he came to Cambridge, 
where he passed the rest of his life, and where he died March 
24, 1882. He is deservedly among the best known and most 
popular of modern poets, both in England and in this country, 
and the selections in this volume are abundant evidence of the 
skill, grace, and artistic form of his narrative poems. 




g ^ 

N <U 

2-5 



OH 



ll!|. Ji ■lilui^ki:.! ItJllilliiilil 






THE SKELETON IN ARMOR. 207 

Wrapt not in Eastern balms, 
But with thy fleshless palms 
Stretched, as if asking alms, 

Why dost thou haunt me? " 

Then, from those cavernous eyes 
Pale flashes seemed to rise, 
As when the Northern skies 

Gleam in December: 
And, like the water's flow 
Under December's snow, 
Came a dull voice of woe 

From the heart's chamber. 

** I was a Viking old! 
My deeds, though manifold. 
No Skald in song has told. 

No Saoja taugrht thee! 
Take heed, that in thy verse 
Thou dost the tale rehearse, 
Else dread a dead man's curse ; 

For this I sought thee. 

** Far in the Northern Land, 
By the wild Baltic's strand, 
I, with my childish hand. 

Tamed the gerfalcon; 
And, with my skates fast-bound, 
Skimmed the half-frozen Sound, 
That the poor whimpering hound 

Trembled to walk on. 



* Oft to his frozen lair 



Tracked I the grisly bear. 
While from my path the hare 



k 



208 BALLADS AND LYRICS. 

Fled like a shadow; 
Oft through the forest dark 
Followed the were- wolf's bark, 
Until the soaring lark 

Sang from the meadow. 

*' But when I older grew, 
Joining a corsair's crew, 
O'er the dark sea I flew 

With the marauders. 
Wild was the life we led; 
Many the souls that sped, 
Many the hearts that bled. 

By our stern orders. 

** Many a wassail-bout 

Wore the long winter out ; 
Often our midnight shout 

Set the cocks crowing, 
As we the Berserk's tale 
Measured in cups of ale, 
Draining the oaken pail, 

Filled to o'erflowingf. 



*' Once as I told in glee 
Tales of the stormy sea, 
Soft eyes did gaze on me. 
Burning yet tender; 
And as the white stars shine 
On the dark Norway pine. 
On that dark heart of mine 
Fell their soft splendor. 

*' I wooed the blue-eyed maid, 
Yielding, yet half afraid, 



THE SKELETON IN ARMOR. 2^ 

And in the forest's shade 

Our vows were plighted. 
Under its loosened vest 
Fluttered her little breast, 
Like birds within their nest 

l^y the hawk frighted. 

*' Bright in her father's hall 
Shields gleamed upon the wall, 
Loud sang the minstrels all, 

Chanting his glory; 
When of old Hildebrand 
I asked his daughter's hand, 
Mute did the minstrels stand 
To hear my story. 

** While the brown ale he quaffed 
Loud then the champion laughed, 
And as the wind gusts waft 
The sea-foam brightly. 
So the loud laugh of scorn. 
Out of those lips unshorn, 
From the deep drinking-horn 
Blew the foam lightly. 

** She was a Prince's child, 
I but a Viking wild, 
And though she blushed and smiled, 

I was discarded ! 
Should not the dove so white 
Follow the sea-mew's flight, 
Why did they leave that night 
Her nest unguarded? 
14 



210 BALLADS AND LYRICS. 

'* Scarce had I put to sea, 
Bearing the maid with me, 
Fairest of all was she 

Among the Norsemen ! 
When on the white sea-strand, 
Waving his arm^d hand, 
Saw we old Hildebrand, 
AVith twenty horsemen. 

'* Then launched they to the blast, 
Bent like a reed each mast, 
Yet we were gaining fast. 

When the wind failed us ; 
And with a sudden flaw 
Came round the gusty Skaw, 
So that our foe we saw 

Laugh as he hailed us. 

*' And as to catch the gale 

Round veered the flapping sail, 
Death ! was the helmsman's hail, 

Death without quarter ! 
Mid-ships with iron keel 
Struck we her ribs of steel ; 
Down her black hulk did reel 

Throuorh the black water ! 



As with his wings aslant, 
Sails the fierce cormorant, 
Seeking some rocky haunt. 

With his prey laden, 
So toward the open main, 
Beating to sea again, 



1 




'•In tiie vast forest here, 
Clad in mv warlike gear." See p. 211. 



THE SKELETON IN ARMOR. 211 (j 

Through the wild hurricane, 
Bore I the maiden. 



*' Three weeks we westward bore, 
And when the storm was o'er, 
Cloudlike we saw the shore 

Stretching to lee-ward ; 
There for my lady's bower 
Built I the lofty tower, 
Which, to this very hour. 

Stands looking sea- ward. 

*' There lived we many years ; 
Time dried the maiden's tears ; 
She had forgot her fears. 

She was a mother ; 
Death closed her mild blue eyes, 
Under that tower she lies ; 
Ne'er shall the sun arise 

On such another ! 

" Still grew my bosom then, 
Still as a stao^nant fen ! 
Hateful to me were men. 

The sun-light hateful ! 
In the vast forest here. 
Clad in my warlike gear, 
Fell I upon my spear, 

O, death was grateful! 

" Thus, seamed with many scars, 
Bursting these prison bars, 
Up to its native stars 

My soul ascended ! 
There from the flowingr bowl 






212 BALLADS AND LYRICS. 

Deep drinks the warrior's soul, 
Skoal! to the Northland ! skoal! " 
Thus the tale ended. ^ 
Henry Wads worth Longfellow. 



THE ARMADA. 

I A FRAGMENT. 

Attend, all ye who list to hear our noble England's 
praise ; 

I tell of the thrice famous deeds she wrought in an- 
cient days, 

When that orreat fleet invincible as^ainst her bore in 
vain 

The richest spoils of Mexico, the stoutest hearts of Spain. 

It was about the lovely close of a warm summer day, 

There came a gallant merchant-ship full sail to Plym- 
outh Bay ; 

Her crew hath seen Castile's black fleet, beyond Au- 
rigny's isle, 

At earliest twilight, on the waves lie heaving many a 
mile. 

At sunrise she escaped their van, by God's especial 



1 This fine poem was suggested by the discovery in a sand- 
bank, near Fall River, Mass., of a skeleton with some remains 
of armor clinging to it. The early visits of the Norsemen to 
New England gave support to the theory that this was one of 
that race. It is more probable, however, that the skeleton was 
that of an Indian of the tribes which were found in Central 
America, as the armor corresponded to that worn by the aborig- 
inal inhabitants of those regions. 



r 



I THE ARMADA. 213 

f And the tall Pinta, till the noon, had held her close in 

i chase. 

Forthwith a guard at every gun was placed along the 
^ wall ; 

The beacon blazed upon the roof of Edgecumbe's lofty 
I hall ; 

I Many a light fishing-bark put out to pry along the 

*^ coast, 

And with loose rein and bloody spur rode inland many 
I a post. 

- With his white hair unbonneted, the stout old sheriff 

comes ; 
I Behind him march the halberdiers ; before him sound 

\ the drums ; 

\ His yeomen round the market cross make clear an 

ample space ; 
For there behoves him to set up the standard of Her 

Grace. 
And haughtily the trumpets peal, and gayly dance the 

bells, 
As slow upon the laboring wind the royal blazon swells. 
Look how th^ Lion of the sea lifts up his ancient crown, 
And underneath his deadly paw treads the gay lilies 

down. 
So stalked he when he turned to flight, on that famed 

Picard field, 
Bohemia's plume, and Genoa's bow, and Caesar's eagle 

shield. 
So orlared he when at Ao-incourt in wrath he turned to 

bay. 
And crushed and torn beneath his claws the princely 

hunters lay. 
Ho ! strike the flagstaff deep. Sir Knight; ho ! scatter 

flowers, fair maids ; 
Ho ! gunners, fire a loud salute ; ho ! gallants, draw 
your blades ; 



214 



BALLADS AND LYRICS. 



Thou sun, shine on her joyously ; ye breezes, waft 

her wide, — 
Our glorious Semper Eadem, the banner of our pride. 
The freshening breeze of eve unfurled that banner's 

massive fold ; 
The parting gleam of sunshine kissed that haughty 

scroll of gold ; 
Night sank upon the dusky beach, and on the purple 

sea, 
Such night in England ne'er had been, nor e'er again 

shall be. 
From Eddystone to Berwick bounds, from Lynn to 

Milford Bay, 
That time of slumber was as bright and busy as the 

day ; 
For swift to east and swift to west the ghastly war- 
flame spread. 
High on St. Michael's Mount it shone : it shone on 

Beachy Head. 
Far on the deep the Spaniard saw, along each southern 

shire. 
Cape beyond cape, in endless range, those twinkling 

points of fire. 
The fisher left his skiff to rock on Tamar's orlitterino; 

waves : 
The rugged miners poured to war from Mendip's sun- 
less caves : 
O'er Longleat's towers, o'er Cranbourne's oaks, the 

fiery herald flew : 
He roused the shepherds of Stonehenge, the rangers 

of Beaulieu. 
Right sharp and quick the bells all night rang out from 

Bristol town. 
And ere the day three hundred horse had met on Clif 

ton down ; 



THE ARMADA. 215 

The sentinel on Whitehall gate looked forth into the 

night, 
And saw overhanging Richmond Hill the streak of 

blood- red lio-ht. 
Then bugle's note and cannon's roar the death-like si- 
lence broke, 
And with one start, and with one cry, the royal city 

woke. 
At once on all her stately gates arose the answering 

fires ; 
At once the wild alarum clashed from all her reelinoj 

spires ; 
From all the batteries of the Tower pealed loud the 

voice of fear ; 
And all the thousand masts of Thames sent back a 

louder cheer : 
And from the furthest wards was heard the rush of 

hurrying feet. 
And the broad streams of pikes and flags rushed down 

each roaring street ; 
And broader still became the blaze, and louder still the 

din, 
As fast from every village round the horse came spur- 

rino; in : 
And eastward straight from wild Blackheath the war- 
like errand went. 
And roused in many an ancient hall the gallant squires 

of Kent. 
Southward from Surrey's pleasant hills flew those bright 

couriers forth; 
High on bleak Hampstead's swarthy moor they started 

for the north ; 
And on, and on, without a pause untired they bounded 

still : 
All night from tower to tower they sprang ; they sprang 

from hill to hill ; 



216 



BALLADS AND LYRICS. 



Till the proud peak unfurled the flag o'er Darwin's 
rocky dales, 

Till like volcanoes flared to heaven the stormy hills of 
Wales, 

Till twelve fair counties saw the blaze on Malvern's 
lonely height. 

Till streamed in crimson on the wind the Wrekin's 
crest of light, 

Till broad and fierce the star came forth on Ely's 
stately fane. 

And tower and hamlet rose in arms o'er all the bound- 
less plain ; 

Till Belvoir's lordly terraces the sign to Lincoln sent, 

And Lincoln sped the message on o'er the wide vale of 
Trent ; 

Till Skiddaw saw the fire that burnt on Gaunt' s em- 
battled pile. 

And the red glare on Skiddaw roused the buro^hers of 
Carlisle. 

Lord Macaulay.^ 



1 Thomas Babingtox Macaulay, born in 1800, was a son 
of Zachary Macaulay, an eminent philanthropist. He was ed- 
ucated at Trinity College, Cambridge, and in boyhood and 
youth gave ample promise of his extraordinary mental powers. 
In 1825 he published his essay on Milton, which at once made 
him famous, and in 1826 he was called to the bar. He entered 
Parliament as a Whig in 1830, and rose rapidly in politics by, 
his strong intellect and great oratorical powers. In 1834 he was 
sent to India as one of the Supreme Council, and on his return 
"svas elected to Parliament from Edinburgh, in 1840. In 1846, 
when the Whig party returned to power, he was made Pay- 
master General of the Forces, with a seat in the cabinet. He 
was defeated for Parliament in 1847, but again elected from 
Edinburgh in 1852, resigning his seat in 1856, in order to devote 
himself to literature. In 1857 he was raised to the peerage as 
Baron Macaulay of Rothley. He died in 1859. He was emi- 
leiit both as a statesman and as a Avriter. His poems were feif 



SIR NICHOLAS AT MARSTON MOOR. 217 



SIR NICHOLAS AT MARSTON MOOK^ 

To horse, to horse, Sir Nicholas ! the clarion's note is 
high; 

To horse, to horse. Sir Nicholas ! the huge drum makes 
reply : 

Ere this ha'th Lucas marched with his gallant cavaliers. 

And the bray of Rupert's trumpets grows fainter on 
our ears. 

To horse, to horse. Sir Nicholas ! White Guy is at the 
door, 

And the vulture whets his beak o'er the field of Mars- 
ton Moor. 

Up rose the Lady Alice from her brief and broken 

prayer. 
And she brought a silken standard down the narrow 

turret stair. 
O, many were the tears that those radiant eyes had 

shed. 
As she worked the bright word '' Glory " in the gay 

and oflancino; thread: 
And mournful was the smile that o'er those beauteous 

features ran, 
As she said, "It is your lady's gift, unfurl it in the 

van." 

in number, and although not the highest kind, have very great 
merit combined with force of expression and thought. His 
famo rests on his essays and his history of England. 

1 The battle of Marston Moor was fought July 2, 1644, be- 
tween the Scotch and Parliamentary forces and those of King 
Charles. The battle was doubtful for a time; but was finally de- 
cided by the attack of Cromwell, and the Royalists were utterly 
routed. 



218 



BALLADS AND LYRICS. 



**It shall flutter, noble wench, where the best and 

boldest ride, 
Through the steel-clad files of Skippon and the black 

dragoons of Pride ; 
The recreant soul of Fairfax will feel a sicklier qualm, 
And the rebel lips of Oliver give out a louder psalm. 
When they see my lady's gew-gaw flaunt bravely on 

their wing. 
And hear her loyal soldiers' shout, for God and for the 

King!" 

'T is noon; the ranks are broken along the royal line: 
They fly, the braggarts of the court, the bullies of the 

Rhine: 
Stout Langley's cheer is heard no more, and Astley's 

helm is down. 
And R-upert sheaths his rapier with a curse and with a 

frown ; 
And cold Newcastle mutters, as he follows in the 

flight, 
*' The German boar had better far have supped in 

York to-ni^ht." 



The Knight is all alone, his steel cap cleft in twain, 
His good buff jerkin crimsoned o'er with many a gory 

stain ; 
But still he waves the standard, and cries amid the 

rout : 
" For Church and King, fair gentlemen, spur on and 

fight it out!" 
And now he wards a Roundhead's pike, and now he 

hums a stave, 
And here he quotes a stage-play, and there he fells a 

knave. 



SIR NICHOLAS AT MARS TON MOOR. 219 



Grood speed to thee, Sir Nicholas ! thou hast no thought 

of fear; 
Good speed to thee, Sir Nicholas ! but fearful odds are 

here. 
The traitors ring thee round, and with every blow and 

thrust, 
"Down, down," they cry, '* with Belial, down with 

him to the dust! " 
'*! would," quoth grim old Oliver, ''that Belial's 

trusty sword 
This day were doing battle for the Saints and for the 

Lord!" 

The Lady Alice sits with her maidens in her bower; 

The gray-haired warden watches on the castle's high- 
est tower. 

*' What news, what news, old Anthony? " " The field 
is lost and won ; 

The ranks of war are meltings as the mists beneath the 
sun ; 

And a wounded man speeds hither, — I am old and 
cannot see, 

Or sure 1 am that sturdy step my master's step should 
be." 

*' I bring thee back the standard from as rude and 

rough a fray, 
As e'er was proof of soldier's thews, or theme for 

minstrel's lay. 
Bid Hubert fetch the silver bowl, and liquor quantum 

suff; 
I '11 make a shift to drain it, ere I part with boot and 

buff; 



220 BALLADS AXD LYRICS. 

Though Guy through many a gaping wound is breath- 
ing out his life, 

And I come to thee a landless man, my fond and faith- 
ful wife! 

*' Sweet, we will fill our money-bags and freight a ship 
for France, 

And mourn in merry Paris for this poor realm's mis- 
chance; 

Or. if the worst betide me, why, better axe or rope, 

Than life with Lenthal for a king, and Peters for a 
pope ! 

Alas, alas, my gallant Guy! — out on the crop-eared 
boor, 

That sent me with my standard on foot from IMarston 
Moor!" 

WiNTHROP MaCKWORTH PkAED.^ 



THE EXECUTION OF MONTROSE.^ 

Come hither, Evan Cameron! 

Come, stand beside my knee; 
I hear the river roarinix down 

Towards the wintry sea. 
There 's shouting on the mountain side, 

There *s war within the blast; 

1 Wi>-THE0P Mackworth Praed, born in London in 1802, 
was educated at Eton and Cambridge, where he was distin- 
guished as a scholar and orator. He was called to the bar in 
1829, and entered Parliament in the following year. He rost 
rapidly both in politics and in Uterature, but died, while still 
very yoimg, in 1839. His poems are light and graceful. 

2 James Graham, Marquis of Montrose. See page 44. 



THE EXECUTION OF MONTROSE, 221 

Old faces look upon me, 

Old forms go trooping past: 
I hear the pibroch wailing 

Amidst the din of fight, 
And my dim spirit wakes again 

Upon the verge of night. 

'T was I that led the Hio-hland host 

Through wild Lochaber's snows 
What time the plaided clans came down 

To battle with Montrose. 
I 've told thee how the Southrons fell 

Beneath the broad claymore, 
And how we smote the Campbell clan 

By Inverlochy's shore. 
I 've told thee how we swept Dundee, 

And tamed the Lindsays' pride ; 
But never have I told thee yet 

How the Great Marquis died. 

A traitor sold him to his foes; 

O deed of deathless shame! 
I charge thee, boy, if e'er thou meet 

With one of Assynt's name, — 
Be it upon the mountain's side. 

Or yet within the glen, 
Stand he in martial o-ear alone, 

Or backed by armed men, — 
Face him, as thou wouldst face the man 

Who wronged thy sire's renoAvn ; 
Remember of what blood thou art. 

And strike the caitiff down ! 

They brought him to the Watergate, 
Hard bound with hempen span, 



222 BALLADS AND LYRICS. 

As though they held a lion there, 

And not a fenceless man. 
They set him high upon a cart, — 

The hangman rode below, — 
They drew his hands behind his back, 

And bared his noble brow. 
Then, as a hound is slipped from leash, 

They cheered, the common throng, 
And blew the note with yell and shout, 

And bade him pass along. 

It would have made a brave man's heart 

Grow sad and sick that day, 
To watch the keen malignant eyes 

Bent down on that array. 
There stood the Whig west-country lords 

In balcony and bow; 
There sat their gaunt and withered dames, 

And their daughters all a-row. 
And every open window 

Was full as full might be 
With black-robed Covenantino; carles, 

That goodly sport to see! 

But when he came, though pale and wan. 

He looked so great and high. 
So noble was his manly front, 

So calm his steadfast eye. 
The rabble rout forbore to shout, 

And each man held his breath. 
For well they knew the hero's soul 

Was face to face with death. 
And then a mournful shudder 

Through all the people crept, 
And some that came to scoff at him 

Now turned aside and wept. 



THE EXECUTION OF MONTROSE, 22a 

Had I been there with sword in hand, 

And fifty Camerons by, 
That day through high Dunedin's streets 

Had pealed the slogan-cry. 
Not all their troops of trampling horse, 

Nor might of mailed men, — 
Not all the rebels in the south 

Had borne us backwards then I 
Once more his foot on Highland heath 

Had trod as free as air, 
Or I, and all who bore my name. 

Been laid around him there ! 

It might not be. They placed him next 

Within the solemn hall, 
Where once the Scottish kings were throned 

Amidst their nobles all. 
But there was dust of vulgar feet 

On that polluted floor, 
And perjured traitors filled the place 

Where good men sate before. 
With savao^e olee came Warristoun 

To read the murderous doom; 
And then uprose the great Montrose 

In the middle of the room. . . 

Now, by my faith as belted knight. 

And by the name I bear, 
And by the bright Saint Andrew's cross 

That waves above us there. 
Yea, by a greater, mightier oath, — 

And O, that such should be! — 
By that dark stream of royal blood 

That lies 'twixt you and me, 
I have not soucrht in battle-field 



*^ 



Y 



224: BALLADS AND LYRICS, 

A wreath of such renown, 
Nor dared I hope on my dying day 
To win the martyr's crown! 

* ' There is a chamber far away 

Where sleep the good and brave, 
But a better place ye have named for me 

Than by my father's grave. 
For truth and rioht, Vainst treason's mio^ht, 

This hand hath always striven, 
And ye raise it up for a witness still 

In the eye of earth and heaven. 
Then nail my head on yonder tower — 

Give every town a limb — 
And God who made shall gather theim : 

I go from you to Him ! ' ' 

The morning dawned full darkly, 

The rain came flashino; down, 
And the jagged streak of the levin -bolt 

Lit up the gloomy town : 
The thunder crashed across the heaven, 

The fatal hour was come: 
Yet aye broke in with muffled beat 

The 'larum of the drum. 
There was madness on the earth below, 

And anger in the sky. 
And young and old, and rich and poor, 

Came forth to see him die. 

Ah, God! that ghastly gibbet! 

How dismal 'tis to see 
The great tall spectral skeleton, 

The ladder and the tree! 
Hark! hark! it is the clash of arms — 



THE EXECUTION OF MONTROSE. 225 

The bells begin to toll — 
** He is comino;! he is comino;! 

God's mercy on his soul! " 
One last long peal o£ thunder — 

The clouds are cleared away, 
And the o^lorious sun once more looks down 

Amidst the dazzling day. 

*' He is cominorl he is comino;! " 

Like a bridegroom from his room, 
Came the hero from his prison 

To the scaffold and the doom. 
There was glory on his forehead, 

There was lustre in his eye, 
And he never walked to battle 

More proudly than to die: 
There was color in his visage. 

Though the cheeks of all were wan, 
And they marvelled as they saw him pass, 

That great and goodly man ! 

He mounted up the scaffold, 

And he turned him to the crowd ; 
But they dared not trust the people, 

So he might not speak aloud. 
But he looked upon the heavens. 

And they were clear and blue. 
And in the liquid ether 

The eye of God shone through! 
Yet a black and murky battlement 

Lay resting on the hill, 
As though the thunder slept within, — 

All else was calm and still. 
15 



226 BALLADS AND LYRICS, 

The grim Geneva ministers 

With anxious scowl drew near, 
As you have seen the ravens flock 

Around the dying deer. 
He would not dei^fn them word nor sis^n. 

But alone he bent the knee ; 
And veiled his face for Christ's dear grace, 

Beneath the gallows-tree. 
Then radiant and serene he rose, 

And cast his cloak away: 
For he had ta'en his latest look 

Of earth and sun and day. 

A beam of light fell o'er him, 

Like a glory round the shriven, 
And he climbed the lofty ladder 

As it were the path to heaven. 
Then came a flash from out the cloud, 

And a stunning thunder-roll; 
And no man dared to look aloft, 

For fear was on every soul. 
There was another heavy sound, 

A hush and then a groan; 
And darkness swept across the sky, — 

The work of death was done. 

William Edmondstoune Aytoun. 




THE DREAM OF ARGYLE. 227 



THE DREAM OF ARGYLE.i 

Earthly arms no more uphold him, 

On his prison's stony floor, 
Waitino; death in his last slumber, 

Lies the doomed Mac Galium More. 

And he dreams a dre^^m of boyhood ; 

Rise again his heathery hills, 
Sound again the hound's long baying, 

Cry of moor-fowl, laugh of rills. 

Now he stands amidst his clansmen 

In the low, long banquet-hall, 
Over grim, ancestral armor 

Sees the ruddy firelight fall. 

Once again, with pulses beating. 
Hears the wandering; minstrel tell 

How Montrose on Inverary 

Thief-like from his mountains fell. 

Down the glen, beyond the castle, 
Where the linn's swift waters shine. 

Round the youthful heir of Argyle 
Shy feet glide and white arms twine. 

1 Archibald Campbell, ninth Earl of Argyle. He fought for 
the royal cause at Dunbar in 1650, and in 1663 Avas restored to 
his earldom and estates. Being required to take the " Test " in 
1681 he declined unless he could make a reservation in favor of 
the Protestant faith. For this he was condemned to death and 
obliged to flee the country. He returned in 1685, was taken 
prisoner and executed, as his father had been before him. He 
is said to have slept soundly a few hours before his execution. 



228 BALLADS AND LYRICS. 

Fairest of the rustic dancers, 

Blue-eved EfRe smiles once more, 

Bends to him her snooded tresses, 
Treads with him the grassy floor. 

Now he hears the pipes lamenting, 

Harpers for his mother mourn, 
Slow, with sable plume and pennon, 

To her cairn of burial borne. 

• 

Then anon his dreams are darker, 
Sounds of battle fill his ears, 

And the pibroch's mournful wailing 
For his father's fall he hears. 

Wild Lochaber's mountain echoes 
Wail in concert for the dead. 

And Loch Awe's deep waters murmur 
For the Campbell's glory fled! 

Fierce and strong the godless tyrants 
Trample the apostate land, 

While her poor and faithful remnant 
Wait for the aven<ier's hand. 

Once again at Inverary, 
Years of weary exile o'er, 

Armed to lead his scattered clansmen. 
Stands the bold Mac Galium More. 



Once aoain to battle callino; 

Sound the war-pipes through the glen; 
And the court-yard of DunstafPnage 

Rin^s with tread of armed men. 



• BOOT AND SADDLE. 229 

All is lost! the godless triumpli, 

And the faithful ones and true 
From the scaffold and the prison 

Covenant with God anew. 

On the darkness of his dreaming 

Great and sudden glory shone; 
Over bonds and death victorious 

Stands he by the Father's throne 

From the radiant ranks of martyrs 
Notes of joy and praise he hears, 

Songs of his poor land's deliverance 
Sounding from the future years. 

Lo, he wakes! but airs celestial 

Bathe him in immortal rest, 
And he sees with unsealed vision 

Scotland's cause with victory blest. 

Shinino; hosts attend and ouard him 

As he leaves his prison door; 
And to death as to a triumph 

Walks the great Mac Galium More ! 

Elizabeth H. Whittiek.^ 



BOOT AND SADDLE. 



Boot, saddle, to horse, and away I 
Rescue my castle before the hot day 
Brightens to blue from its silvery gray, 

Chorus. Boot, saddle, to horse, and away! 

1 Elizabeth H. Whittier, sister of the poet, John G. 
Whittier. See page 322. 



t 



230 



BALLADS AND LYRICS. 



Ride past the suburbs, asleep as you 'd say ; 
Many ^s the friend there will listen and pray, 
*' God's luck to gallants that strike up the lay, — 
Chorus. " Boot, saddle, to horse, and away ! '' 

Forty miles off, like a roebuck at bay, 
Flouts castle Brancepeth the Roundheads' array: 
Who laughs, *' Good fellows ere this, by my fay. 
Chorus. **Boot, saddle, to horse, and away? " 

Who? my wife Gertrude; that, honest and gay, 
Laughs when you talk of surrendering, " Nay! " 
' I 've better counsellors ; what counsel they? 

Chorus. ^' Boot, saddle, to horse, and away! " 

Robert Browning. 



THE NORMAN BARON. 

In his chamber, weak and dying, 
Was the Norman baron lying; 
Loud, without, the tempest thundered, 
And the castle-turret shook. 

In this fight was Death the gainer. 
Spite of vassal and retainer. 
And the lands his sires had plundered, 
Written in the Doomsday Book. 

By his bed a monk was seated, 
Who in humble voice repeated 
Many a prayer and pater-noster, 
From the missal on his kneej 



THE NORMAN BARON, 231 

And, amid the tempest pealing, 
Sounds of belk came faintly stealing. 
Bells, that from the neighboring kloster 
Rang for the Nativity. 

In the hall, the serf and vassal 

Held, that night, their Christmas wassail; 

Many a carol, old and saintly. 

Sang the minstrels and the waits ; 

And so loud these Saxon gleemen 
Sano; to slaves the sonos of freemen, 
That the storm was heard but faintly, 
Knockino; at the castle-orates. 

Till at length the lays they chanted 
Reached the chamber terror-haunted, 
Where the monk, with accents holy. 
Whispered at the baron's ear. 

Tears upon his eyelids glistened, 
As he paused a while and listened, 
And the dying baron slowly 
Turned his weary head to hear. 

*' Wassail for the kingly stranger 
Born and cradled in a mano^er! 
King, like David, priest, like Aaron, 
Christ is born to set us free ! " 

And the lio^htnins; showed the sainted 
Figures on the casement painted. 
And exclaimed the shuddering baron, 
*' Miserere, Domine! " 



232 BALLADS AND LYRICS. 

In that hour of deep contrition 
He beheld, with clearer vision, 
Through all outward show and fashion, 
Justice, the Avenger, rise. 

All the pomp of earth had vanished. 

Falsehood and deceit were banished, 

Reason spake more loud than passion. 

And the truth wore no diso^uise. 

Every vassal of his banner, 
Every serf born to his manor, 
All those wronged and wretched creatures, 
By his hand were freed again. 

And, as on the sacred missal 
He recorded their dismissal, 
Death relaxed his iron features, 
And the monk replied, '' Amen ! " 

Many centuries have been numbered 
Since in death the baron slumbered 
By the convent's sculptured portal, 
Ming-lino; with the common dust : 



But the good deed, through the ages, 
Living in historic pages, 
Brighter grows, and gleams immortal, 
Unconsumed by moth or rust. 

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 



THE WARDEN OF THE CINQUE PORTS. 233 



THE WARDEN OF THE CINQUE PORTS. 

A MIST was driving down the British Channel, 

The day was just begun, 
And through the window-panes, on floor and panel, 

Streamed the red autumn sun. 

It glanced on flowing flag and rippling pennon, 

And the white sails of ships; 
And, from the frowning rampart, the black cannon 

Hailed it with feverish lips. 

Sandwich and Romney, Hastings, Hithe, and Dover 

Were all alert that day. 
To see the French war-steamers speeding over, 

When the fog cleared away. 

Sullen and silent, and like couchant lions, 

Their cannon, through the night, 
Holding their breath, had watched, in grim defiance, 

The sea-coast opposite. 

And now they roared at drum-beat from their stations, 

On every citadel; 
Each answering each, with morning salutations, 

That all was well. 

And down the coast, all taking up the burden. 

Replied the distant forts. 
As if to summon from his sleep the Warden 

And Lord of the Cinque Ports. 

Him shall no sunshine from the fields of azwre, 
No drum-beat from the wall, 



234 



BALLADS AND LYRICS, 



No morning-gun from the black fort's embrasure, 
Awaken with its call ! 



No more, surveying with an eye impartial 

The long line of the coast, 
Shall the oraunt fio-ure of the old Field Marshal 

Be seen upon his post! 

For in the night, unseen, a single warrior. 

In sombre harness mailed, 
Dreaded of man, and surnamed the Destroyer, 

The rampart wall had scaled. 

He passed into the chamber of the sleeper, 

The dark and silent room. 
And as he entered, darker grew, and deeper, 
The silence and the gloom. 

He did not pause to parley or dissemble, 

But smote the Warden hoar; 
Ah! what a blow! that made all England tremble 

And groan from shore to shore. 

Meanwhile, without, the surly cannon waited, 

The sun rose bright o'erhead ; 
Nothing in Nature's aspect intimated 

That a great man was dead. 

Henky Wads worth Longfellow. 



HOW THEY BROUGHT THE NEWS. 235 

HOW THEY BROUGHT THE GOOD NEWS 
FROM GHENT TO AIX. 

[16-.] 

I SPRANG to the stirrup, and Joris, and he; 

I galloped, Dirck galloped, we galloped all three; 

"Good speed!" cried the watch, as the gate-bolts 

undrew; 
*' Speed! " echoed the wall to us galloping through; 
Behind shut the postern, the lights sank to rest, 
And into the midnight we galloped abreast. 

Not a word to each other; we kept the great pace 
Neck by neck, stride by stride, never changing our 

place ; 
I turned in my saddle and made its girths tight, 
Then shortened each stirrup, and set the pique right, 
Rebuckled the cheek-strap, chained slacker the bit, 
Nor galloped less steadily Roland a whit. 

'T was moonset at startino^: but while we drew near 
Lokeren, the cocks crew and twilight dawned clear; 
At Boom, a great yellow star came out to see; 
At DUffield, 't was morning as plain as could be; 
And from Mecheln church-steeple we heard the half- 
chime, 
So Joris broke silence with, " Yet there is time! " 

At Aershot, up leaped of a sudden the sun, 

And against him the cattle stood black every one, 

To stare thro' the mist at us galloping past. 

And I saAv my stout galloper Roland at last, 

With resolute shoulders each butting away 

The haze, as some bluff river headland its spray : 



236 



BALLADS AND LYRICS. 



And his low head and crest, just one sharp ear bent 

back 
For my voice, and the other pricked out on his track ; 
And one eye's black intelligence, — ever that glance 
O'er its white edge at me, his own master, askance! 
And the thick heavy spume-flakes which aye and 

anon 
His fierce lips shook upwards in galloping on. 

By Hasselt, Dirck groaned; and cried Joris, " Stay 

spur! 
Your Roos galloped bravely, the fault 's not in her, 
We '11 remember at Aix " — for one heard the quick 

wheeze 
Of her chest, saw the stretched neck and stao-aerinor 

knees. 
And sunk tail, and horrible heave of the flank, 
As down on her haunches she shuddered and sank. 

So we were left galloping, Joris and T, 

Past Looz and past Tongres, no cloud in the sky ; 

The broad sun above laughed a pitiless laugh, 

'Neath our feet broke the brittle brio;ht stubble like 

chaff : 
Till over by Dalhem a dome-spire sprung white. 
And " Gallop," gasped Joris, " for Aix is in sight! " 



'^ How they '11 greet us! " — and all in a moment his 

roan 
Rolled neck and croup over, lay dead as a stone ; 
And there was my Roland, to bear the whole weight 
Of the news which alone could save Aix from her 

fate. 
With his nostrils like pits full of blood to the brim, 
And with circles of red for his eye-sockets' rim. 




" In the market-place of Bruges stands 
The belfry old and brown." See p. 237. 



THE BELFRY OF BRUGES. 237 

Then I cast loose my buffcoat, each holster let fall, 
Shook off both my jack-boots, let go belt and all, 
Stood up in the stirrup, leaned, patted his ear, 
Called my Roland his pet name, my horse without 

peer ; 
Clapped my hands, laughed and sang, any noise, bad 

or good, 
Till at length into Aix Roland galloped and stood. 

And all I remember is, friends flockincr round 
As I sat with his head 'twixt my knees on the ground 
And no voice but was praising this Roland of mine, 
As I poured down his throat our last measure of wine. 
Which (the burgesses voted by common consent) 
Was no more than his due who broug;ht oood news 
from Ghent. 

Robert Browning. 



THE BELFRY OF BRUGES. 

In the market-place of Bruges stands the belfry old 

and brown ; 
Thrice consumed and thrice rebuilded, still it watches 

o'er the town. 

As the summer morn was breaking, on that lofty tower 

I stood, 
And the world threw off the darkness, like the weeds 

of widowhood. 

Thick with towns and hamlets studded, and with 

streams and vapors gray. 
Like a shield embossed with silver, round and vast the 

landscape lay. 



238 BALLADS AND LYRICS. 

At my feet the city slumbered. From its chimneys, 

here and there, 
Wreaths of snow-white smoke, ascending, vanished, 

ghost-like, into air. 

Not a sound rose from the city at that early morning 

hour, 
But I heard a heart of iron beating in the ancient 

tower. 

From their nests beneath the rafters sanor the swallows 
wild and high; 

And the world, beneath me sleeping, seemed more dis- 
tant than the sky. 

Then most musical and solemn, bringins; back the 

olden times, 
With their strange, unearthly changes rang the 

melancholy chimes. 

Like the psalms from some old cloister, when the nuns 
sing in the choir; 

And the great bell tolled among them, like the chant- 
ins; of a friar. 

Visions of the days departed, shadowy phantoms 

filled my brain ; 
They who live in history only seemed to walk the 

earth again; 

All the Foresters of Flanders, — mighty Baldwin Bras 

de Fer, 
Lyderick du Bucq and Cressy, Philip, Guy de Dam- 

pierre. 



THE BELFRY OF BRUGES, 239 

I beheld the pageants splendid that adorned those days 

of old; 
Stately dames, like queens attended, knights who 

bore the Fleece of Gold. 

Lombard and Venetian merchants with deep-laden ar- 
gosies ; 

Ministers from twenty nations; more than royal pomp 
and ease. 

I beheld proud Maximilian, kneeling humbly on the 

ground ; 
I beheld the gentle Mary, hunting with her hawk and 

hound; 

And her lighted bridal-chamber, where a duke slept 
with the queen. 

And the armed guard around them, and the sword un- 
sheathed between. 

I beheld the Flemish weavers, with Namur and Juliers 

bold. 
Marching homeward from the bloody battle of the 

Spurs of Gold. 

Saw the fight at Minne water, saw the White Hoods 

moving west. 
Saw great Artevelde victorious scale the Golden 

Dragon's nest. 

And again the whiskered Spaniard all the land with 

terror smote; 
And again the wild alarum sounded from the tocsin's 

throat. 



r^ 



^40 



BALLADS AND LYRICS. 



Fill the bell of Ghent responded o'er lagoon and dike 
of sand, 
I am Roland ! I am Roland ! there is victory in the 
land!" 

Then the sound of drums aroused me. The awakened 

city's roar 
Chased the phantoms I had summoned back into their 



Hours had passed away like minutes; and, before I 

was aware, 
Lo! the shadow of the belfry crossed the sun-illumined 

square. 

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 



HORATIUS. 

Lars Porsena of Clusium 

By the Xine Gods he swore 
That the great house of Tarquin 

Should suffer wrong no more. 
By the IXine Gods he swore it 

And named a trysting day, 
And bade his messengers ride forth, 
East and west and south and north. 

To summon his array. 

East and west and south and north 
The messengers ride fast, 

And tower and town and cottage 
Have heard the trumpet's blast. 

Shame on the false Etruscan 
Who lingers in his home, 



HORATIUS. 24i 

When Porsena of Clusium 
Is on the march for Kome. 

And now hath every city 

Sent up her tale of men; 
The foot are fourscore thousand, 

The horse are thousands ten. 
Before the gates of Sutrium 

Is met the great array. 
A proud man was Lars Porsena 

Upon the try sting day. 

For all the Etruscan armies 

Were ranged beneath his eye, 
And many a banished Roman, 

And many a stout ally : 
And with a mighty following 

To join the muster came 
The Tusculan Mamilius, 

Prince of the Latian name. 

But by the yellow Tiber 

Was tumult and affrioht: 
From all the spacious champaign 

To Rome men took their flight. 
A mile around the city 

The throng stopped up the ways; 
A fearful sight it was to see 

Through two long nights and days. 

To eastward and to westward 
Have spread the Tuscan bands; 

Nor house, nor fence, nor dove-cote 
In Crustumerium stands. 

Verbenna down to Ostia 
16 



f 



242 BALLADS AND LYRICS. 

Hath wasted all the plain; 
Astur hath stormed Janiculum, 
And the stout guards are slain. 

I wis, in all the Senate, 

There was no heart so bold, 
But sore it ached and fast it beat, 

When that ill news was told. 
Forthwith up rose the Consul, 

Up rose the Fathers all ; 
In haste they girded up their gowns, 

And hied them to the wall. 

They held a council standing 

Before the River-Gate; 
Short time was there, ye well may guesfi^ 

For musino; or debate. 
Out spake the Consul roundly: 

" The bridore must straio;ht go down : 
For, since Janicuhim is lost, 

Nouo^ht else can save the town." 

Just then a scout came flying, 

All wild with haste and fear: 
*' To arms! to arms! Sir Consul: 

Lars Porsena is here ! " 
On the low hills to westward 

The Consul fixed his eye, 
And saw the swarthy storm of dust 

Rise fast along the sky. 

And nearer fast and nearer 

Doth the red whirlwind come ; 
And louder still and still more loud, 
From underneath that rolling cloud, 



a gujjM 



I 



HORATIUS. 243 

Is heard the trumpet's war-note proud, 

The trampling and the hum. 
And plainly and more plainly 

!N^ow through the gloom appears, 
Far to left and far to right, , 

In broken orleams of dark-blue ligrht. 
The long array of helmets bright, 

The long array of spears. 

Fast by the royal standard, 

O'erlooking; all the war, 
Lars Porsena of Clusium 

Sat in his ivory car. 
By the right wheel rode Mamilius, 

Prince of the Latian name; 
And by the left false Sextus, 

That wrought the deed of shame. 

But when the face of Sextus 

Was seen among the foes, 
A yell that rent the firmament 

From all the town arose. 
On the house-tops was no woman 

But spat towards him and hissed, 
No child but screamed out curses, 

And shook its little fist. 

But the Consul's brow was sad, 

And the Consul's speech was low, 
And darkly looked he at the wall. 

And darkly at the foe. 
Their van will be upon us 

Before the bridge goes down ; 
And if they once may win the bridge^ 

What hope to save the town ? " 



244 BALLADb' AND LYRICS 

Then out spake brave Horatius, 

The Captain of the Gate: 
'' To every man upon this earth 

Death cometh soon or late. 
And how can man die better 

Than facino- fearful odds, 
For the ashes of his fathers, 

And the temple^ of his Gods, 

** And for the tender mother 

AYho dandled him to rest. 
And for the wife who nurses 

His baby at her breast, 
And for the holy maidens 

Who feed the eternal flame, 
To save them from false Sextus 

That wrouo;ht the deed of shame ? 

** Hew down the bridge, Sir Consul, 

With all the speed ye may; 
I, with two more to help me, 

Will hold the foe in play. 
In yon strait path a thousand 

May well be stopped by three. 
Now who will stand on cither hand, 

And keep the bridge with me ? '* 

Then out spake Spurius Lartius; 
A Ramnian proud was he: 
" Lo, 1 will stand at thy right hand, 
And keep the bridge with thee.'* 
And out spake strong Herminius; 
Of Titian blood was he: 
** I will abide on thy left side. 

And keep the bridge with thee." 



HO RATI us. , 245 

^* Horatius," quoth the Consul, 

" As thou sayestj so let it be." 
And straight against that great array 

Forth went the dauntless Three. 
For Romans in Rome's quarrels 

Spared neither land nor gold, 
Nor son nor wife, nor limb nor life, 

In the brave days of old. 

Then none was for a party; 

Then all were for the state; 
Then the great man helped the poor, 

And the poor man loved the great; 
Then lands were fairly portioned ; 

Then spoils were fairly sold; 
The Romans were like brothers 

In the brave days of old. 

Now Roman is to Roman 

More hateful than a foe, 
i And the Tribunes beard the hi^h, 

And the Fathers mnd the low. 
As we wax hot in faction, 

In battle we wax cold: 
Wherefore men fight not as they fought 

In the brave days of old. 

Now while the Three were tiohteninor 

Their harness on their backs, 
The Consul was the foremost man 

To take in hand an axe: 
And Fathers mixed with Commons 

Seized hatchet, bar, and crow, 
And smote upon the planks above, 

And loosed the props below. 



««i4i""«E2Si 



w«»Ma b 



246 BALLADS AND LYRICS. 

Meanwhile the Tuscan army, 

Right glorious to behold, 
Come flashing back the noonday light, 
Rank behind rank, like suro^es bright 

Of a broad sea of iiold. 
Four hundred trumpets sounded 

A peal of warlike glee, 
As that great host with measured tread. 
And spears advancedL and ensigns spread, 
Rolled slowly towards the bridge's head, 

Where stood the dauntless Three. 

The Three stood calm and silent. 

And looked upon the foes, 
And a orreat shout of laugrhter 

From all the vanguard rose: 
And forth three chiefs came spurring 

Before that deep array; 
To earth they sprang, their swords they drew, 
And lifted high their shields, and flew 

To win the narrow way ; 

Aunus from green Tifernum, 

Lord of the Hill of Vines; 
And Seius, whose eight hundred slaves 

Sicken in Ilva's mines; 
And Picus, long to Clusium 

Vassal in peace and war, 
Who led to fight his Umbrian powers 
From that gray crag where, girt with towers, 
The fortress of Nequinum lowers 

O'er the pale waves of Nar. 

Stout Lartius hurled down Aunus 
Into the stream beneath ; 



iieawi 



HO RATI us. 247 

Herminius struck at Seius 

And clove him to the teeth; 
At Pious brave Horatius 

Darted one fiery thrust; 
And the proud Umbrian's gilded arms 

Clashed in the bloody dust. 

Then Ocnus of Falerii 

Rushed on the Roman Three; 
And Lausulus of Urgo, 

The rover of the sea; 
And Aruns of Yolsinium, 

Who slew the great wild boar, — 
The great wild boar that had his den 
Amidst the reeds of Cosa's fen, 
And wasted fields, and slaughtered men, 

Along Albinia's shore. 

Herminius smote down Aruns; 

Lartius laid Ocnus low ; 
Right to the heart of Lausulus 

Horatius sent a blow. 
Lie there," he cried, " fell pirate! 

No more, aghast and pale. 
From Ostia^s walls the crowd shall mark 
The track of thy destroying bark. 
No more Campania's hinds shall fly 
To woods and caverns when they spy 

Thy thrice accursed sail." 

But now no sound of laugfhter 

Was heard among the foes. 
A wild and wrathful clamor 

From all the vanguard rose. 
Six spears' length from the entrance 



248 BALLADS AND LYRICS. 

Halted that deep array, 
And for a space no man came forth 
To win the narrow way. 

But hark! the cry is Astur: 

And lo! the ranks divide; 
And the great Lord of Luna 

Comes with his stately stride. 
Upon his ample shoulders 

Clangs loud the four-fold shield, 
And in his hand he shakes the brand 

Which none but he can wield. 

He smiled on those bold Romans 

A smile serene and hi^h ; 
He eyed the flinching Tuscans, 

And scorn was in his eye. 
Quoth he, '^ The she-wolf's litter 

Stand savagely at bay : 
But will ye dare to follow, 

If Astur clears the way? " 

Then, whirling up his broadsword 

With both hands to the height. 
He rushed against Horatius, 

And smote with all his might. 
With shield and blade Horatius 

Right deftly turned the blow. 
The blow, though turned, came yet too nigh ; 
It missed his helm, but oashed his thio-h : 
The Tuscans raised a joyful cry 

To see the red blood flow. 



He reeled, and on Herminius 
He leaned one breathing-space ; 



HORATIUS. 249 

Then, like a wild-eat mad with wounds, 

Sprang right at Astur's face. 
Through teeth, and skull, and helmet, 

So fierce a thrust he sped, 
The orood sword stood a hand-breadth out 

Behind the Tuscan's head. 

And the great Lord of Luna 

Fell at that deadly stroke. 
As falls on Mount Alvernus 

A thunder-smitten oak. 
Far o'er the crashing forest 

The giant arms lie spread ; 
And the pale augurs, muttering low, 

Gaze on the blasted head. 

On Astur's throat Horatius 

Right firmly pressed his heel, 
And thrice and four times tugraed amain. 

Ere he wrenched out the steel. 
** And see," he cried, ''the welcome, 

Fair guests, that waits you here ! 
What noble Lucumo comes next 

To taste our Roman cheer ? " 

But at his haughty challenge 

A sullen murmur ran. 
Mingled of wrath, and shame, and dread, 

Alonor that orlitterino; van. 

o o o 

There lacked not men of prowess. 

Nor men of lordly race ; 
For all Etruria's noblest 

Were round the fatal place. 

But all Etruria's noblest 
Felt their hearts sink to see 



250 BALLADS AND LYRICS. 

On the earth the bloody corpses, 

In the path the dauntless Three : 
And, from the ghostly entrance 

Where those bold Romans stood, 
All shrank, like boys who unaware, 
Rano-ino- the woods to start a hare, 
Come to the mouth of the dark lair 
Where, growling low, a fierce old bear 
Lies amidst bones and blood. 

Was none who would be foremost 

To lead such dire attack ; 
But those behind cried " Forward ! '' 

And those before cried " Back I '' 
And backward now and forward 

Wavers the deep array ; 
And on the tossinor sea of steel, 
To and fro the standards reel; 
And the victorious trumpet-peal 

Dies fitfully away. 

Yet one man for one moment 

Strode out before the crowd ; 
Well known was he to all the Three, 

And they gave him greeting loud. 
*' Now welcome, welcome, Sextus ! 

Now welcome to thy home ! 
Why dost thou stay, and turn away ? 

Here lies the road to Rome." 

Thrice looked he at the city ; 

Thrice looked he at the dead ; 
And thrice came on in fury. 

And tlirice turned back in dread ; 
And, white with, fear and hatred, 

Scowled at the narrow way 



HORATIUS. 251 

Where, wallowing in a pool of blood, 
The bravest Tuscans lay. 

But meanwhile axe and lever 
Have manfully been plied ; 
And now the bridge hangs tottering 
Above the boiling tide. 
" Come back, come back, Horatius ! " 

Loud cried the Fathers all. 
"Back, Lartius ! Back, Herminius ! 
Back, ere the ruin fall ! '' 

Back darted Spurius Lartius ; 

Herminius darted back : 
And, as they passed, beneath their feet 

They felt the timbers crack. 
But when they turned their faces, 

And on the farther shore 
Saw brave Horatius stand alone, 

They would have crossed once more. 

But with a crash like thunder / 

Fell every loosened beam, 
And, like a dam, the mighty wreck 

Lay right athwart the stream ; 
And a long shout of triumph 

Rose from the walls of Rome, 
As to the highest turret-tops 

Was splashed the yellow foam. 

And, like a horse unbroken 

When first he feels the rein. 
The furious river struggled hard, 

And tossed his tawny mane, 
And burst the curb, and bounded, 



-T 



252 BALLADS AND LYRICS. 

Rejoicing to be free, 
And, whirling down, in fierce career, 
Battlement, and plank, and pier, 

Rushed headlonof to the sea. 

Alone stood brave Horatius, 

But constant still in mind ; 
Thrice thirty thousand foes before, 
And the broad flood behind. 
'* Down with him ! " cried false Sextus, 

With a smile on his pale face. 
'* Now yield thee," cried Lars Porsena, 
*' Now yield thee to our grace." 

Round turned he, as not deigning 

Those craven ranks to see ; 
Nought spake he to Lars Porsena, 

To Sextus nought spake he ; 
But he saw on Palatinus 

The white porch of his home ; 
And he spake to the noble river 

That rolls by the towers of Rome. 

<*0 Tiber ! father Tiber! 

To whom the Romans pray, 
A Roman's life, a Roman's arms, 

Take thou in charge this day ! " 
So he spake, and speaking sheathed 

The good sword by his side. 
And, with his harness on his back, 

Plunojed headlono; in the tide. 

No sound of joy or sorrow 

Was heard from either bank ; 
But friends and foes in dumb surprise, 



HO RATI us. 253 

With parted lips and straining eyes, 

Stood gazing where he sank ; 
And when above the surges 

They saw his crest appear, 
All Rome sent forth a rapturous cry, 
And even the ranks of Tuscany 

Could scarce forbear to cheer. 

But fiercely ran the current, 

Swollen high by months of rain, 
And fast his blood was flowingr 

And he was sore in pain, 
And heavy with his armor. 

And spent with changing blows: 
And oft they thought him sinking, 

But still again he rose. 

Never, I ween, did swimmer, 

In such an evil case, 
Struo;o;le throuo;h such a raginor flood 

Safe to the landing place: 
But his limbs were borne up bravely 

By the brave heart within, 
And our o^ood father Tiber 

Bare bravely up his chin. 

** Curse on him! " quoth false Sextus; 
" Will not the villain drown? 
But for this stay, ere close of day 
We should have sacked the town! " 
** Heaven help him! " quoth Lars Porscna, 
" And bring him safe to shore; 
For such a gallant feat of arms 
Was never seen before." 



254 



BALLADS AXD LYRICS. 



And now he feels the bottom; 

Xow on dry earth he stands; 
Xow round him throng the Fathers, 

To press his gory hands; 
And now, with shouts and clapping, 

And noise of weeping loud, 
He enters through the River- Gate, 

Borne by the joyous crowd. 

They gave him of the corn-land, 

That was of public right, 
As much as two strons; oxen 

Could plough from morn till night; 
And they made a molten image, 

And set it up on high, 
And there it stands unto this day 

To witness it I lie. 



It stands in the Comitium, 

Plain for all folk to see: 
Horatius in his harness. 

Halting upon one knee: 
And underneath is written, 

In letters all of gold, 
How valiantly he kept the bridge 

In the brave days of old. 

And still his name sounds stirring 

Unto the men of Rome, 
As the trumpet-blast that cries to them 

To charge the Yolseian home ; 
And wives si ill pr.iy to Juno 

For boys with hearts as bold 
As his who kept the hridore so well 

In the brave days of old. 

Lord Macaulay. 



I 



BURIAL OF THE MINNISINK. 255 



BURIAL OF THE MINNISINK. 

On sunny slope and beechen swell, 
The shadowed lioht of evenino^ fell; 
And, where the maple's leaf was brown, 
With soft and silent lapse came down 
The glory that the wood receives, 
At sunset, in its s^olden leaves. 

Far upward in the mellow light 

Rose the blue hills. One cloud of white. 

Around a far uplifted cone. 

In the warm blush of evening shone; 

An image of the silver lakes, 

By which the Indian's soul awakes. 

But soon a funeral hymn was heard 
Where the soft breath of evenino; stirred 
The tall, gray forest; and a band 
Of stern in heart, and strong in hand. 
Came winding down beside the wave, 
To lay the red chief in his grave. 

They sang, that by his native bowers 
He stood, in the last moon of flowers. 
And thirty snows had not yet shed 
Their glory on the warrior's head; 
But, as the summer fruit decays, 
So died he in those naked days. 

A dark cloak of the roebuck's skin 
Covered the warrior, and within 
Its heavy folds the weapons, made 
For the hard toils of war, were laid; 



256 BALLADS AND LYRICS. 

The cuirass, woven of plaited reeds, 
And the broad belt of shells and beads. 



Before, a dark-haired virgin train 
Chanted the death-dirge of the slain; 
Behind, the long procession came 
Of hoary men and chiefs of fame, 
With heavy hearts, and eyes of grief, 
Leadinor the war-horse of their chief. 

Stripped of his proud and martial dress, 
Uncurbed, unreined, and riderless. 
With darting eye, and nostril spread, 
And heavy and impatient tread, 
He came; and oft that eye so proud 
Asked for his rider in the crowd. 

They buried the dark chief; they freed 
Beside the grave his battle-steed; 
And swift an arrow cleaved its way 
To his stern heart! One piercing neigh 
Arose, and, on the dead man's plain, 
The rider grasps his steed again. 

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 



THE PILGRIM'S VISION. 

In the hour of twilight shadows 
The Pilgrim sire looked out; 

He thought of the " bloudy Salvages '* 
That lurked all round about. 

Of Wituwamet's pictured knife 
And Pecksuot's whooping shout; 



THE PILGRIM'S VISION. '2.bl 

For the baby's limbs were feeble, 
Though his father's arms were stout. 

His home was a freezing cabin, 

Too bare for the hungry rat. 
Its roof was thatched with ragged grass, 

And bald enough of that; 
The hole that served for casement 

Was glazed with an ancient hat; 
And the ice was gently thawing 

From the log whereon he sat. 

Along the dreary landscape 

His eyes went to and fro, 
The trees all clad in icicles, 

The streams that did not flow; 
A sudden thought flashed o'er him, — 

A dream of long ago, — 
He smote his leathern jerkin. 

And murmured, " Even so! " 

'* Come hither, God-be-Glorified, 

And sit upon my knee, 
Behold the dream unfolding, 

Whereof I spake to thee 
By the winter's hearth in Ley den 

And on the stormy sea; 
True is the dream's beginning, — 

So may its ending be! 

** I saw in the naked forest 

Our scattered remnant cast, 
A screen of shivering branches 
Between them and the blast; 
The snow was falling round them, 
17 



258 BALLADS AND LYRICS 

The dying fell as fast; 
I looked to see them perish, 
When lo, the vision passed. 



*' Again mine eyes were opened, — 

The feeble had waxed strong, 
The babes had grown to sturdy men, 

The remnant was a throng; 
By shadowed lake and winding stream, 

And all the shores alono;, 
The howling demons quaked to hear 

The Christian's godly song. 

** They slept, — the village fathers, — 

By river, lake, and shore, 
When far adown the steep of Time 

The vision rose once more; 
I saw along the winter snow 

A spectral column pour. 
And high above their broken ranks 

A tattered flag they bore. 

** Their Leader rode before them, 

Of bearins: calm and hig^h, 
The light of Heaven's own kindlins: 

Throned in his awful eye, 
These were a Nation's champions 

Her dread appeal to try ; 
God for the right! I faltered. 

And lo, the train passed by. 

'* Once more, — the strife is ended, 
The solemn issue tried, 
The Lord of Hosts, his mighty arm 
Has helped our Israel's side; 




THE PILGRIM'S VISION. 259 



Gray stone and grassy hillock 

Tell where our martyrs died, 
But peaceful smiles the harvest, 

And stainless flows the tide. 

*' A crash, — as when some swollen cloud 

Cracks o'er the tanijled trees! 
With side to side, and spar to spar, 

Whose smoking^ decks are these ? 
I know Saint George's blood-red cross, 

Thou Mistress of the Seas, — 
But what is she, whose streaming bars | 

Roll out before the breeze ? j 

" Ah, well her iron ribs are knit, ' 

Whose thunders strive to quell 
The bellowing throats, the blazing lips. 

That pealed the Armada's knell ! 
The mist was cleared, a wreath of stars | 

Kose o'er the crimsoned swell, I 

And, wavering from its haughty peak. 

The cross of England fell! 

" O tremblino* Faith ! thouo;h dark the morn, 

A heavenly torch is thine ; 
While feebler races melt away. 

And paler orbs decline, 
Still shall the fiery pillar's ray 

Along thy pathway shine. 
To lio-ht the chosen tribe that souoht 

This Western Palestine! 

' ' I see the living tide roll on ; 

It crowns with flaming towers 
The icy capes of Labrador, 



260 BALLADS AND LYRICS. 

The Spaniard's ' land of flowers * I 

It streams beyond the splintered ridge 
That parts the northern showers; 

From eastern rock to sunset wave 
The continent is ours ! " 

He ceased, — the o-rim old soldier-saint, — 

Then softly bent to cheer 
The pilgrim-child, whose wasting face 

Was meekly turned to hear; 
And drew his toil-w^orn sleeve across, 

To brush the manly tear 
From cheeks that never changed in woe, 

And never blanched in fear. 

The weary pilgrim slumbers, 

His resting-place unknown; 
His hands were crossed, his lids were closed, 

The dust was o'er him strown; 
The drifting soil, the mouldering leaf, 

Along the sod were blown; 
His mound has melted into earth, 

His memory lives alone. 

So let it live unfading, 

The memory of the dead, 
Long as the pale anemone 

Springs where their tears were shed, 
Or, raining in the summer's wind 

In flakes of burning red. 
The wild rose sprinkles with its leaves 

The turf where once they bled ! 

Yea, when the frowning bulwarks 
That o'uard this holv strand 



r 



PAUL REVERE' S RIDE. 261 

Have sunk beneath the trampling- surge 

In beds of sparkling sand, 
While in the waste of ocean 

One hoary rock shall stand, 
Be this its latest legend, 

Here was the Pilmm's land! 

Oliver Wendell Holmes. 



i PAUL REVERE' S RIDE. 

Listen, my children, and you shall hear 
Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere, 
On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-five; 
I Hardly a man is now alive 

Who remembers that famous day and year. 

I He said to his friend, " If the British march 

't By land or sea from the town to-night, 

Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry arch 
i Of the North Church tower as a si2:nal lio^ht, — 

^ One, if by land, and two, if by sea ; 

And I on the opposite shore will be. 

Ready to ride and spread the alarm 
I Through every Middlesex village and farm, 

I For the country-folk to be up and to arm." 

Then he said, " Good-nio;ht! '' and with muffled oar 
l Silently rowed to the Charlestown shore, 

\ Just as the moon rose over the bay, 

Where swinging wide at her moorings lay 

The Somerset, British man-of-war ; 

A phantom ship, with each mast and spar 

Across the moon like a prison bar, 



262 



BALLADS AND LYRICS. 



And a huore black hulk, that was magnified 
By its own reflection in the tide. 

Meanwhile, his friend, through alley and street, 
Wanders and watches with eao^er ears, 
Till in the silence around him he hears 
The muster of men at the barrack door, 
The sound of arms, and the tramp ot" feet, 
And the measured tread of the grenadiers, 
Marching down to their boats on the shore. 

Then he climbed the tower of the Old North Church, 

By the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread, 

To the belfry-chamber overhead, 

And startled the pigeons from their perch 

On the sombre rafters, that round him made 

Masses and moving shapes of shade, — 

By the trembling ladder steep and tall. 

To the hig^hest window in the wall, 

Where he paused to listen and look down 

A moment on the roofs of the town. 

And the moonliorlit flowing: over all. 



Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead, 

In their night encampment on the hill, 

Wrapped in silence so deep and still 

That he could hear, like a sentiners tread. 

The watchful night-wind, as it went 

Creeping along from tent to tent. 

And seeming to whisper, " All is well I " 

A moment only he feels the spell 

Of the place and the hour, and the secret dread 

Of the lonely belfry and the dead; 

For suddenly all his thoughts are bent 

On a shadowy something far away, 




A hurry of hoofs in a ullage street." See p. 263. 



PAUL REVERE' S RIDE. 263 

Where the river widens to meet the bay, — 
A line of black that bends and floats 
On the rising tide, like a bridge of boats. 

Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride, 
Booted and spurred, with a heavy stride 
On the opposite shore walked Paul Revere. 
Now he patted his horse's side. 
Now gazed at the landscape far and near. 
Then, 'impetuous, stamped the earth, 
And turned and tig^htened his saddle- o;irth : 
But mostly he watched with eager search 
Tlie belfry-tower of the Old North Church, 
As it rose above the oraves on the hill, 
Lonely and spectral and sombre and still. 
And lo ! as he looks, on the belfry's height 
A o^limmer, and then a g-leam of lio-lit ! 
He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns, 
But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight 
A second lamp in the belfry burns ! 

A hurry of hoofs in a village street, 

A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark, 

And beneath, from the pebbles, in passing, a spark 

Struck out by a steed flying fearless and fleet : 

That was all ! And yet, through the gloom and the 

light, 
The fate of a nation was ridino; that night; 
And the spark struck out by that steed, in his flight, 
Kindled the land into flame with its heat. 

He has left the village and mounted the steep, 
And beneath him, tranquil and broad and deep, 
Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean tides; 
And under the alders, that skirt its edge, 



264 



BALLADS AND LYRICS. 



Now soft on the sand, now loud on the ledge, 
Is heard the tramp of his steed as he rides- 
It was twelve by the village clock 
When he crossed the bridge into Medford town. 
He heard the crowing of the cock, 
And the barking of the farmer's dog, 
And felt the damp of the river fog, 
That rises after the sun ooes down. 

It was one bv the villa2:e clock 

When he galloped into Lexington. 

He saw the gilded weathercock 

Swim in the moonlight as he passed, 

And the meeting-house windows, blank and bare, 

Gaze at him with a spectral glare, 

As if they already stood aghast 

At the bloody work they would look upon. 

It was two by the village clock 

When he came to the bridge in Concord town. 

He heard the bleating of the flock, 

And the twitter of birds amono^ the trees. 

And felt the breath of the mornino; breeze 

Blowins: over the meadows brown. 

And one was safe and asleep in his bed 

Who at the bridge would be first to fall, 

Who that day would be lying dead, 

Pierced by a British musket-ball. 

You know the rest. In the books you have read, 
How the British Regulars fired and fled, — 
How the farmers gave them ball for ball, 
From behind each fence and farm-yard wall, 
Chasins^ the red-coats down the lane, 



LEXINGTON, 265 

Then crossino: the fields to emero;e aojain 
Under the trees at the turn of the road, 
And only pausing to fire and load. 

So throuorh the niojht rode Paul Revere : 

And so through the night went his cry of alarm 

To every Middlesex village and farm, — 

A cry of defiance and not of fear, 

A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door, 

And a word that shall echo forevermore I 

For, borne on the night-wind of the Past, 

Through all our history, to the last, 

In the hour of darkness and peril and need, 

The people will waken and listen to hear 

The hurrying hoof-beats of that steed, 

And the midnio-ht messaoe of Paul Revere. 

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 



LEXINGTON. 



Slowly the mist o'er the meadow was creeping, 
Briorht on the dewv buds orlistened the sun, 
When from his couch, while his children were sleeping, 
Rose the bold rebel and shouldered his gun. 

Waving her golden veil 

Over the silent dale, 
Blithe looked the morning on cottage and spire ; 

Hushed was his parting sigh, 

While from his noble eye 
Flashed the last sparkle of liberty's fire. 

On the smooth green where the fresh leaf is springing, 
Calmly the first-born of glory have met ; 



2(jG ballads and lyrics. 

Hark 1 the death-volley around them is ringing ! 
Look! with their hfe-blood the young grass is wet I 

Faint is the feeble breath, 

Murmuring low in death, 
** Tell to our sons how their fathers have died ; " 

Nerveless the iron hand, 

Raised for its native land, 
Lies by the weapon that gleams at its side. 

Over the hillsides the wild knell is tollinor, 

From their far hamlets the yeomanry come; 

As throuo^h the storm-clouds the thunder burst rollinor 

Circles the beat of the musterino^ drum. 

Fast on the soldier's path 

Darken the waves of wrath. 
Long have they gathered and loud shall they fall; 

Red glares the musket's flash, 

Sharp rings the rifle's crash, 
Blazinoj and clangrino- from thicket and wall. 

Gayly the plume of the horseman was dancing, 
Never to shadow his cold brow again ; 
Proudly at morning the war- steed was prancing, 
Reeking and panting he droops on the rein; 

Pale is the lip of scorn, 

Voiceless the trumpet horn, 
Torn is the silken-fringed red cross on high; 

Many a belted breast 

Low on the turf shall rest. 
Ere the dark hunters the herd have passed by. 

Snow-girdled crags where the hoarse wind is raving, 
Rocks where the weary floods murmur and wail, 
Wilds where the fern by the furrow is waving. 
Reeled with the echoes that rode on the gale; 



GRANDMOTHERS STORY. 267 

Far as the tempest thrills 

Over the darkened hills, 
Far as the sunshine streams over the plain> 

Roused by the tyrant band, 

Woke all the mighty land, 
Girded for battle, from mountain to main. 

Green be the graves where her martyrs are lying I 
Shroudless and tombless they sunk to their rest, — 
While o'er their ashes the starry fold flying 
Wraps the proud eagle they roused from his nest. 

Borne on her Northern pine, 

Long; o'er the foamino- brine 
Spread her broad banner to storm and to sun; 

Heaven keep her ever free, 

Wide as o'er land and sea 
Floats the fair emblem her heroes have won ! 

Oliver AVexdell Holmes. 



GRANDMOTHER'S STORY OF BUNKER 
HILL BATTLE. 

AS SHE SAW IT FROM THE BELFRY. 

1 IS like stirring living embers when, at eighty, one 

remembers 
All the achings and the quakings of " the times that 

tried men's souls; " 
When I talk of WJiig and Torij, when I tell the Rebel 

story. 
To you the words are ashes, but to me they 're burning 

coals. 



268 BALLADS AND LYRICS. 

I had heard the musket?' rattle of the April ranning 

battle; 
Lord Percy's hunted soldiers, I can see their red coats 

stni; 
But a deadly chill coines o'er me, as the day looms up 

before me, 
When a thousand men lay bleeding on the slopes of 

Bunker's Hill. 

'T was a peaceful summer's morning, when the first 

thing gave us warnino; 
Was the boominop of the cannon from the river and the 

shore. 
** Child," says grandma, " what 's the matter, what is 

all this noise and clatter? 
Have those scalping Indian devils come to murder us 



Poor old soul I mv sides were shakinsr in the midst of 

all my quaking, 
To hear her talk of Indians when the guns began to 

roar : 
She had seen the burninor villas^e, and the slaucrhter 

and the pillage. 
When the Mohawks killed her father with their bullets 

through his door. 

Then I said, " Now, dear old granny, don't you fret 

and worry any. 
For I '11 soon come back and tell you whether this is 

work or play; 
There can't be mischief in it, so I won't be gone a 

minute " — 
For a minute then I started. I was gone the hvelong 

day. 



GRANDMOTHERS STORY. 269 

N"© time for bodice-lacing or for looking-glass grimac- 
ing, 

Down my hair went as I hurried, tumbling half-way to 
my heels; 

God forbid your ever knowing, when there 's blood 
around her flowing. 

How the lonely, helpless daughter of a quiet household 
feels! 

In the street I heard a thumping, and I knew it was 

the stumping 
Of the Corporal, our old neighbor, on that wooden leg 

he wore, 
With a knot of women round him, — it was lucky I 

had found him, 
So I followed with the others, and the Corporal marched 

before. 

They were making for the steeple, — the old soldier 
and his people; 

The pigeons circled round us as we climbed the creak- 
ing^ stair, 

Just across the narrow river — O, so close it made me 

shiver ! — 

■ 

i Stood a fortress on the hill-top that but yesterday was 

bare. 

Not slow our eyes to find it; well we knew who stood 
behind it. 

Though the earthwork hid them from us, and the stub- 
born walls were dumb: 

Here were sister, wife, and mother, looking wdld upon 
each other, 

And their lips were white with terror as they said, 
The hour has come I 



-npf^at^f 'r-tmfmim 



270 BALLADS AND LYRICS. 

The morning slowly wasted, not a morsel bad we 

tasted, 
And our heads were almost splitting with the cannon's 

deafening thrill, 
When a figure tall and stately round the rampart strode 

sedately, 
Ft was Prescott^ one since told me ; he commanded on 

the hill. 

Every woman's heart grew bigger when we saw bis 

manly figure. 
With the banyan buckled round it, standing up so 

straight and tall; 
Like a gentleman- of leisure who is strolling out for 

pleasure, 
Through the storm of shells and cannon-shot he walked 

around the wall. 

At eleven the streets were swarming, for the red-coats' 
ranks were forming, 

At noon in marching order they were moving to the 
piers ; 

How the bayonets gleamed and glistened, as we looked 
far down and listened 

To the trampling and the drum-beat of the belted gren- 
adiers! 

At length the men have started, with a cheer (it seemed 

faint-hearted), 
.n their scarlet regimentals, with their knapsacks on 

their backs. 
And the reddening, rippling water, as after a sea-fight's 

slaughter. 
Round the barges gliding onward blushed like blood 

alono' their tracks. 



GRANDMOTHER'S STORY. 271 

So tliey crossed to the other border, and again they 
formed in order ; 

And the boats came back for soldiers, came for sol- 
diers, soldiers still : 

The time seemed everlasting to us women faint and 
fasting, — 

At last they 're moving, marching, marching proudly 
up the hill. 

We can see the bright steel glancing all along the lines 

advancing; 
Now the front rank fires a volley, — they have thrown 

away their shot; 
For behind their earthwork lying, all the balls above 

them flying; 
Our people need not hurry, so they wait and answer 

not. 

Then the Corporal, our old cripple (he would swear 

sometimes and tipple) , — 
He had heard the bullets whistle (in the old French 

war) before, — 
Calls out in words of jeering, just as if they all were 

hearing, — 
And his wooden leg thumps fiercely on the dusty belfry 

floor : — 

'* O! fire away, ye villains, and earn King George's 

shillin's, 
But ye '11 waste a ton of powder afore a ' rebel ' 

falls; 
You may bang the dirt and welcome, they 're as safe 

as Dan'l Malcolm 
Ten foot beneath the gravestone that you 've splintered 

with your balls I ' ' 



w<ibiMg«?t' ■■! mm^atimamm' fimt iiWii»H«jiSiC/'Tr-r.tka 



t 



h 



272 



BALLADS AND LYRICS, 



In the hush of expectation, in the awe and trepida- 
tion 

Of the dread approaching moment, we are well-nigh 
breathless all; 

Though the rotten bars are failing on the rickety bel- 
fry railing, 

We are crowding up against them like the waves 
against a wall. 

Just a glimpse (the air is clearer), they are nearer, — 

nearer, — nearer, 
When a flash — a curling^ smoke-wreath — then a 

crash — the steeple shakes — 
The deadly truce is ended; the tempest's shroud is 

rended ; 
Like a morning mist it gathered, like a thunder-cloud 

it breaks ! 

O the sight our eyes discover as the blue-black smoke 

blows over ! 
The red-coats stretched in windrows as a mower rakes 

his hay; 
Here a scarlet heap is lying, there a headlong crowd 

is flying 
Like a billow that has broken and is shivered into 

spray. 

Then we cried, ^' The troops are routed! they are 

beat — it can't be doubted ! 
God be thanked, the fight is over 1 " — Ah! the grim 

old soldier's smile ! 
" Tell us, tell us why you look so? " (we could 

hardly speak, we shook so), — 
Are they beaten ? Are they beaten ? Are they 

beaten? " — " Wait awhile." 



/ 



GRANDMOTHER'S STORY. 278 

the treinblino; and the terror! for too soon we saw 

our error: 
They are baffled, not defeated; we have driven them 

back in vain; 
And the columns that were scattered, round the colors 

that were tattered, 
Toward the sullen silent fortress turn their belted 

breasts ao-ain. 



All at once, as we are gazing, lo, the roofs of Charles- 
town blazing ! 

They have fired the harmless village ; in an hour it 
will be down ! 

The Lord in heaven confound them, rain his fire and 
brimstone round them, — 

The robbing, murdering red-coats, that would burn a 
peaceful town ! 

They are marching, stern and solemn; we can see each 

massive column 
As they near the naked earth-mound with the slanting 

walls so steep. 
Have our soldiers got faint-hearted, and in noiseless 

haste departed? 
Are they panic-struck and helpless ? Are they palsied 

or asleep ? 

Now! the walls they're almost under! scarce a rod the 
foes asunder! 

Not a firelock flashed against them ! up the earthwork 
they will swarm ! 

But the words have scarce been spoken, when the omi- 
nous calm is broken, 

And a bellowing crash has emptied all the vengeance 
of the storm 1 
18 



HBP r^nni» i' 



274 



BALLADS AND LYRICS. 



So again, with murderous slaughter, pelted backwards 

to the water, 
Fly Pig^ot's runnino- heroes and the friohtened braves 



of H 



owe : 



And we shoat, " At last they're done for, it's their 

barges they have run for: 
They are beaten, beaten, beaten; and the battle 's over 

now! 



I '» 



And we looked, poor timid creatures, on the rough old 

soldier's features, 
Our lips afraid to question, but he knew what we would 



''Not sure," he said, "keep quiet, — once more, I 

guess, they '11 try it, — 
Here 's damnation to the cut-throats ! " — then he 

handed me his flask, 

Saying, *' Gal, you're looking shaky; have a drop of 

old Jamaiky ; 
I 'm af eared there '11 be more trouble afore the job is 

done; " 
So I took one scorching swallow ; dreadful faint I felt^ 

and hollow, 
Standing there from early morning when the firing was 

be2:un. 



All through those hours of trial I had watched a calm 

clock dial, 
As the hands kept creeping, creeping, — they were 

creeping round to four. 
When the old man said, " They 're forming with their 

baoronets fixed for stormino-, 
rt's the death -grip that 's a coming, — they will try the 

works once more." 




GRANDMOTHERS STORY. 275 

With brazen trumpets blaring, the flames behind them 
olarino-, 
u The deadly wall before them, in close array they 

V come; 

\ Still onward, upward toiling, like a dragon's fold un- 

I coiling, — 

Like the rattlesnake's shrill warning the reverberating- 
drum ! 

Over heaps all torn and gory — shall I tell the fearful \ 

story, I 

How they surged above the breastwork, as a sea breaks [ 

over a deck; i 

How, driven, yet scarce defeated, our worn-out men \ 

retreated, 

With their powder horns all emptied, like the swim- | 

mers from a wreck ? \ 



It has all been told and painted; as for me, they say I 

fainted, 
And the wooden-legged old Corporal stumped with me 

down the stair: 
When I woke from dreams affriohted the eveninor 

lamps were lighted, — 
On the floor a youth was lying ; his bleeding breast 

was bare. 

And I heard through all the flurry, " Send for Warren ! 

hurry! hurry! 
Tell him here 's a soldier bleeding, and he '11 come and 

dress his wound ! '^ 
Ah, we knew not till the morrow told its tale of death 

and sorrow. 
How the starlight found him stiffened on the dark and 

bloody ground. 



276 



BALLADS AND LYRICS. 



Who the youth was, what his name was, where the 

place from which he came was, 
Vs\o ha(i brought him from the battle, and had left 

him at our door, 
He could not t^peak to tell us; but 'twas one of our 

brave fellows, 
As the homespun plainly showed us which the dying 

soldier wore. 

For they all thought he was dyingr, as they grathered 

round him crying. 
And they said, '' O, how they'll miss him!" and, 

'^ What will his mother do? '' 
Then his eyelids just unclosing like a child's that has 

been dozing. 
He faintly murmured, *' Mother! '* — and — I saw his 

eyes were blue. 

" Why, orraudma, how you 're winkinsr!" — Ah, my 

child, it sets me thinking 
Of a story not like this one. Well, he somehow lived 

along; 
So we came to know each other, and I nursed him Uke 

a — mother, 
Till at last he stood before me, tall, and rosy-cheeked, 

and stronor. 



And we sometimes walked together in the pleasant 

summer weather — 
^* Please to tell us what his name was? " — Just your 

own, my little dear, — 
There's his picture Copley painted: we became so 

well acquainted, 
That — in short, that's why I'm grandma, and you 

children all are here! 

Oliver Wendell Holmes. 



HYMN OF THE MORAVIAN NUNS. 277 



HYMN OF THE MORAVIAN NUNS OF 
BETHLEHEM, 

AT THE CONSECRATION OF PULASKl'S BANNER. 

When tlie dying flame of day 

Through the chancel shot its ray, 

Far the glimmering tapers shed 

Faint light on the cowled head ; 

And the censer burnino; swun^. 

Where, before the altar, hung 

The crimson banner, that with prayer 

Had been consecrated there. 

And the nuns' sweet hymn was heard the while, 

Sung low, in the dim, mysterious aisle. 

" Take thy banner! May it wave 
Proudly o'er the sood and brave: 
When the battle's distant wail 
Breaks the Sabbath of our vale. 
When the clarion's music thrills 
To the hearts of these lone hills, 
When the spear in conflict shakes. 
And the strons; lance shiverino; breaks. 

*' Take thy banner! and, beneath 
The battle-cloud's encirclino- wreath, 
Guard it, till our homes are free! 
Guard it ! God will prosper thee ! 
In the dark and trying hour, 
In the breaking forth of power. 
In the rush of steeds and men, 
His ri^ht hand will shield thee then. 



278 BALLADS AND LYRICS. 

*" Take thy banner! But Avlien night 
Closes round the ghastly fight, 
If the vanquished warrior bow, 
Spare him ! By our holy vow, 
By our prayers and many tears, 
By the mercy that endears, 
Spare him! he our love hath shared! 
Spare him! as thou wouldst be spared! 

" Take thy banner! and if e'er 
Thou shouldst press the soldier's bier, 
And the muffled drum should beat 
To the tread of mournful feet. 
Then this crimson flag shall be 
Martial cloak and shroud for thee." 



The warrior took that banner proud, 
And it was his martial cloak and shroud! 

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 



INCIDENT OF THE FRENCH CAMP. 



You know, we French stormed Ratisbon; 

A mile or so away, 
On a little mound, Napoleon 

Stood on our stormino-dav; 
AVith neck out-thru?t, you fancy how, 

Legs wide, arms locked behind. 
As if to balance the prone brow 

Oppressive with its mind. 



"P 



INCIDENT OF THE FRENCH CAMP, 279 

II. 

Just as perhaps he mused, " My plans, 

That soar, to earth may fall, 
Let once my army-leader Lannes 

Waver at yonder wall," — 
Out-'twixt the battery-smokes there flew 

A rider, bound on bound 
Full-galloping; nor bridle drew 

Until he reached the mound. 

III. 
Then off there flung in smiling joy, 

And held himself erect 
By just his horse's mane, a boy: 

You hardly could suspect — 
(So tight he kept his lips compressed 

Scarce any blood came through) 
You looked twice ere you saw his breast 

Was all but shot in two. 

IV. 

" Well," cried he, '^ Emperor, by God's grace 

We 've got you Ratisbon! 
The marshal 's in the market-place. 

And you '11 be there anon 
To see your flag-bird flap his vans 

Where I, to heart's desire, 
Perched him ! " The chief's eye flashed; his plans 

Soared up again like fire. 

V. 

The chiefs eye flashed ; but presently 

Softened itself, as sheathes 
A film the mother-eagle's eye 

When her bruised eao;let breathes : 



280 



BALLADS AXD LYFJCS. 



** You ^re wounded!" '• Nay," the soldier's pride 

Touched to the quick, he said: 
** I 'm killed, Su-e! " And his chief beside, 

Smiling, the boy fell dead. 

RoBEET Browning. 



THE CHARGE OE THE LIGHT BRIGADE.^ 



Half a leasiLie, half a leao;ue, 
Half a league onward, 
All in the valley of Death 

Rode the six hundred. 
*' Forward, the Light Brigade! 
Charoe for the oruns! '* he said: 
Lato the valley of Death 

Rode the six hundred. 



II. 

*' Forward, the Light Brigade!'' 
Was there a man dismay 'd? 
Not tho' the soldiers knew 

Some one had blunder'd; 
Theirs not to make reply, 
Theirs not to reason w^hv, 



i October 28, 1854, the battle of BiUaklava, iu the Crimea, was 
fought betAveen the Russian and the allied French and Enghsh 
forces. By a misconception of Lord Raglan's order the light 
cavalry, six hundred and seventy strong, under Lord Cardigan, 
charged the main body of the Russian army of twelve thousand 
They inflicted great loss upon the enemy, but only one hundred 
ind ninety-eight men returned from the charge. 



CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE. 281 

Theirs but to do and die: 
Into the valley of Death 
Kode the six hundred. 

III. 

Cannon to right of them , 
Cannon to left of them, 
Cannon in front of them 

Volley 'd and thunder'd; 
Stormed at with shot and shell, 
Boldly they rode and well, 
Into the jaws of Death, 

SInto the mouth of Hell 
E.ode the six hundred. 

\ 

I Flash' d all their sabres bare, 

Flashed as they turn'd in air, 
Sabrino^ the o-unners there, 

Charging an army, while 
All the world wonder'd: 
Plunged in the battery-smoke 
Right thro' the line they broke ; 

a Cossack and Russian 

I EeePd from the sabre-stroke 

I Shatter' d and sunder 'd. 

j Then they rode back, but not, 

i Not the six hundred. 



Cannon to right of them, 
Cannon to left of them, 
Cannon behind them 

Yolley'd and thunder'd; 
Stormed at with shot and shell, 



282 BALLADS AND LYRICS. 

While horse and hero fell, 
They that had fought so well 
Came thro' the jaws of Death, 
Back from the mouth of Hell, 
All that was left of them, 
Left of six hundred. 

VI. 

When can their glory fade ? 
O the wild charge they made! 

All the world wonder'd. 
Honor the charge they made ! 
Honor the Light Brigade, 

Xoble six hundred! 

Alfred Tennyson.* 



VICTOR GALBRAITH. 

Under the walls of Monterey ^ 
At daybreak the bugles began to play, 
Victor Galbraith! 



1 Alfred Tennyson, the laureate of England, and, with the 
exception of Robert BroA^iiing, the greatest of living English 
poets, was born in 1810 at Somersby, Lincolnshire. He is of an 
ancient family and was educated at Trinity College, Cambridge, 
and published his first poems while still in college. He was 
made poet-laureate in 1850, on the death of Wordsworth. He 
has led a retired life at his home in the Isle of Wight, and has 
written and published many poems. His longest and most im- 
portant poems are the Idyls of the King and In Memoriam^ and 
his hTics and songs are many of them of great beaut3^ 

2 This refers to the period of the war between Mexico and the 
United States. The battle of Monterey was fought September 
24, 1846. 



VICTOR GALBRAITH. 283 

In the mist of the morning damp and gray, 
These were the words they seemed to say : 
** Come forth to thy death, 
Victor Galbraith ! " 

Forth he came, with a martial tread; 
Firm was his step, erect his head; 

Victor Galbraith, 
He w^ho so well the bugle played, 
Could not mistake the words it said: 
" Come forth to thy death, 

Victor Galbraith!" 

He looked at the earth, he looked at the sky, 
He looked at the files of musketry, 

Victor Galbraith! 
And he said, with a steady voice and eye, 
** Take orood aim: I am readv to die! " 

Thus challenges death 

Victor Galbraith. 

Twelve fiery tongrues flashed straig-ht and red. 
Six leaden balls on their errand sped; 

Victor Galbraith 
Falls to the ground, but he is not dead; 
His name was not stamped on those balls of lead, 

And they only scath 

Victor Galbraith. 

Three balls are in his breast and brain, 
But he rises out of the dust again, 

Victor Galbraith ! 
The water he drinks has a bloody stain ; 
'* O kill me, and put me out of my pain! '* 
In his agony prnyeth 
. Victor Galbraith. 



4 



anm 



284 BALLADS AND LYRICS. 

Forth dart once more those tongues of flame, 
And the bugler has died a death of shame, 

Victor Galbraith ! 
His soul has crone back to whence it came, 
And no one answers to the name. 
When the sergeant saith, 
'' Victor Galbraith ! " 



Under the walls of Monterey 

By night a bugle is heard to play, 

Victor Galbraith ! 
Through the mist of the valley damp and gray, 
The sentinels hear the sound, and say, 
** That is the wraith 

Of Victor Galbraith ! " 

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 



THE SOLDIER FROM BINGEN. 

A SOLDIER of the Legion lay dying in Algiers; 
There was lack of woman's nursinor there was dearth 

of woman's tears; 
But a comrade stood beside him, while the life-blood 

ebbed away, 
And bent with pitying glance to hear each word he 

had to say. 
The dying soldier faltered, as he took that comrade's 

hand, 
A.nd he said : "I never more shall see my own — mj 

native land ! 



M_«le»»i» *± 



THE SOLDIER FROM BINGEN. 285 

Take a messasre and a token to the distant friends of 

mine, 
For I was born at Bino-en — at Binfjon on the Khine ! 



*' Tell my brothers and companions, when they meet 

and crowd around, 
To hear my mournful story, in the pleasant vineyard 

ground. 
That we fought the battle bravely, and when the day 

was done, 
Full many a corse lay ghastly pale, beneath the setting 

sun ; 
And midst the dead and dying were some grown old in 

wars, 
The death-wound on their gallant breasts, - — the last 

of many scars ! 
But some were young, and suddenly beheld Life's 

morn decline, — 
And one had come from Bingen — fair Bingen on the 

Rhine ! 

*' Tell my mother that her other sons shall comfort her 

old age, 
For I was still a truant bird, that thought his home a 

cage ; 
For my father was a soldier, and, even when a child, 
My heart leaped forth to hear him tell of struggles 

fierce and wild ; 
And when he died, and left us to divide his scanty 

hoard, 
I let them take whatever they would, but kept my 

father's sword ! 
A.nd with bovish love I huno; it where the brio-ht li<jht 

used to shine. 
On the cotta2;e wall at Bino:en — calm Bino-en on the 

o o o 

Rhine ! 



286 



BALLADS AND LYRICS. 



** Tell my sister not to weep for me, and sob with 
drooping head, 

When the troops come marching home again, with 
glad and gallant tread; 

But to look upon them proudly, with a calm and stead- 
fast eye, 

For her brother was a soldier, too, and not afraid to 
die! 

And if a comrade seek her love, I ask her in my name 

To listen to him kindly, without regret and shame ; 

And to hang the old sword in its place (my father's 
sword and mine). 

For the honor of old Bingen — dear Bingen on the 
Rhine ! 

^* There 's another, — not a sister, — in happy days 
gone by, 

You 'd have known her by the merriment that spar- 
kled in her eye ; 

Too innocent for coquetry, too fond for idle scorn- 
ing, — 

! friend, I fear the lightest heart makes sometimes 

heaviest mournino; ! 
Tell her the last night of my life — for ere the morn 

be risen, 
My body will be out of pain, my soul be out oi 

prison — 

1 dreamed I stood with her, and saw the yellow sun 

light shine 
On the vine-clad hills of Bingen — fair Bingen on the 
Bhiiie ! 



*' I saw the blue Bhine sweep along; I heard, or seemed 

to hear. 
The German songs we used to sing, in chorus swee* 

and clear ; 



Ju.^ 



THE SOLDIER FROM BIN GEN. 287 

And down the pleasant river, and up the slanting hill, 
The echoing chorus sounded, through the evening calm 

and still ; 
And her glad blue eyes were on me, as we passed, 

with friendly talk, 
Down many a path beloved of yore, and well remem- 
bered walk ; 
And her little hand lay lightly, confidingly, in mine, — 
But we '11 meet no more at Bingen — loved Bingen on 
the Rhine ! " 

His trembling voice grew faint and hoarse, his gasp 

was childish weak. 
His eyes put on a dying look, — he sighed, and ceased 

to speak; 
His comrade bent to lift him, but the spark of life had 

fled, — 
The soldier of the Legion in a foreig^n land was dead ! 
And the soft moon rose up slowly, and calmly she 

looked down 
On the red sand of the battle-field, with bloody corses 

strown ! 
Yes, calmly on that dreadful scene her pale light 

seemed to shine. 
As it shone on distant Bingen — fair Bingen on the 

Rhine! 

Caroline E. S. Norton. i 

1 Caroline Elizabeth Sarah Norton, granddaughter of 
Richard Brinsley Sheridan, was born in 1808, and married in 
1827 to the Hon. George Chappie Norton, from whom she was 
divorced in 1836. Late in life she made a second marriage with 
Sir William Stirling Maxwell. She died in 1878. She was a 
woman of great beauty, very accomplished, and possessed brill- 
iant talents. She wrote much both in prose and in verse. 



288 BALLADS AND LYRICS. 



THE OLD CLOCK ON THE STAIRS. 

Somewhat back from the villacre street 
Stands the old-fashioned country-seat. 
Across its antique portico 
Tall poplar- trees their shadows throw; 
And from its station in the hall 
An ancient time-piece says to all, — 
" Forever — never! 
Never — forever ! ' ' 

Half-way up the stairs it stands, 
And points and beckons with its hands 
From its case of massive oak, 
Like a monk, who, under his cloak. 
Crosses bim>elf, and sig^hs, alas I 
With sorrowful voice to all who pass, — 
' ' Forever — never ! 
Never — forever ! ' ' 

By day its voice is low and light ; 
But in the silent dead of night, 
Distinct as a passing footstep's fall, 
It echoes along the vacant hall, 
Along the ceiling, along the floor. 
And seems to say, at each chamber-door, — 
* ' Forever — never ! 
Never — forever ! '' 

Throuorh davs of sorrow and of mirth, 
Through days of death and days of birth, 
Through every swift vicissitude 
Of changeful time, unchanored it has stood, 



THE OLD CLOCK ON THE STAIRS. 289 

And as if, like God, it all things saw, 
It calmly repeats those words of awe, — 
' ' Forever — never ! 
Never — forever ! ' ' 

In that mansion used to be 
Free-hearted Hospitality; 
His great fires up the chimney roared; 
The stranger feasted at his board; 
But, like the skeleton at the feast, 
That warning timepiece never ceased, — 
'* Forever — never! 
Never — forever ! " 

There groups of merry children played ; 
There youths and maidens dreaming strayed; 
O precious hours! O golden prime, 
And affluence of love and time! 
Even as a miser counts his gold, 
Those hours the ancient timepiece told, — 
' ' Forever — never ! 
Never — forever ! " 

From that chamber, clothed in white. 
The bride came forth on her weddinQ^-nio;ht: 
There, in that silent room below, 
The dead lay in his shroud of snow ; 
And in the hush that followed the prayer, 
Was heard the old clock on the stair, — 
* ' Forever — never ! 
Never — forever ! " 

All are scattered now, and fled ; 
Some are married, some are dead; 
And when I ask, with throbs of pain, 
19 



290 BALLADS AND LYRICS. 

** Ah! when shall they all meet again?*' 
As in the days long since gon^. by, 
The ancient timepiece makes reply, — 
*' Forever — never! 
Never — forever ! ' ' 

Never here, forever there, 
Where all parting, pain, and care, 
And death, and time shall disappear, — 
Forever there, but never here I 
The horologe of Eternity 
Sayeth this incessantly, — 
" Forever — never ! 
Never — forever ! ' * 
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 



THE DEACON'S MASTERPIECE; OR, 
WONDERFUL '^ ONE-HOSS SHAY." 



THE 



A LOGICAL STORY. 

Have you heard of the wonderful one-hoss shay, 

That was built in such a logical way 

It ran a hundred years to a day. 

And then, of a sudden, it — ah, but stay, 

I '11 tell you what happened without delay. 

Scaring the parson into fits, 

Frijrhtening people out of their wits, — 

Have vou ever heard of that, I say? 



Seventeen hundred and fifty-five. 
Georgius Secundus was then alive, — 
Snuff V old drone from the German hive. 







aow she 11 '^ew." See p- 29a. 



i92 LYRICS. 

Bi rhese; 

T 



B 



n tlieir iip«. 






dew! 



aroppea awav. 



soand, 



Li 

W cr. 




'• There,"' said the Deacon, "' naow she 11 dew." See p. 292. 



^ 



THE DEACON'S MASTERPIECE. 293 

In fact, there 's nothing that keeps its youth, 

So far as I know, but a tree and truth. 

(This is a moral that runs at large; 

Take it. — You 're welcome. — No extra charge.) 

First of November, — the Earthquake-day, — 

There are traces of age in the one-hoss shay, 

A general flavor of mild decay, 

But nothing local, as one may say. 

There could n't be, — for the Deacon's art 

Had made it so like in every part 

That there was n't a chance for one to start. 

For the wheels were just as strong as the thills, 

And the floor was just as strong as the sills, 

And the panels just as strong as the floor. 

And the Whipple- tree neither less nor more, 

And the back-crossbar as strong as the fore, 

And spring and axle and hub encore. 

And yet, as a wJwIe, it is past a doubt 

In another hour it will be icoim out I 

i 

I First of November, 'Fifty-five! 

? This morning the parson takes a drive. 

y Now, small boys, get out of the way! 

i Here comes the wonderful one-hoss shay, 

I Drawn by a rat-tailed, ewe-necked bay. 

I ' Huddup! " said the parson. — Off went they. 

^ The parson was working his Sunday's text, — 

I Had got io fifthly^ and stopped perplexed 

I At what the — Moses — was comins; next. 

All at once the horse stood still, 

; Close by the meet'n '-house on the hill. 

— First a shiver, and then a thrill, 
Then something decidedly like a spill, — 
And the parson was sitting upon a rock. 



i~ 



294 



BALLADS AND LYRICS. 



At half past nine by the meet 'n' -house clock, — 
Just the hour of the earthquake shock ! 
— A^liat do you think the parsoii found, 
When he got up and stared around? 
The poor old chaise in a heap or mound, 
As if it had been to the mill and ground! 
You see. of course, if you 're not a dunce, 
How it went to pieces all at once, — 
All at once, and nothing first, — 
Just as bubbles do when they burst. 

End of the wonderful one-hoss shay. 
Logic is logic. That 's all I say. 

Oliver Wendell Holmes. 



YALEXTIXE 



rO the HOX. MARY C. STANHOPE (DAUGHTER OF 

LORD AND LADY MAHON). 

Hail, day of Music, day of Love, 
On earth below, in air above. 
In air the turtle fondly moans, 
The linnet pipes in joyous tones; 
On earth the postman toils along. 
Bent double bv huore bales of sons:, 
Where, rich with many a gorgeous die, 
Blazes all Cupid's heraldry, — 
Myrtles and roses, doves and sparrows. 
Love-knots and altars, lamps and arrows. 
What nymph without wild hopes and fears 
The double rap this morning hears ? 
Unnumbered lasses, young and fair, 



i 



VALENTINE. 295 

From Betbnal Green to Belgrave Square, 

With cheeks high flushed, and hearts loud beating, 

Await the tender annual orreetins^. 

The loveliest lass of all is mine, — 

Good morrow to my Valentine ! 

Good morrow, gentle Child ! and then 
Aoain o^ood morrow, and ao^ain. 
Good morrow following still good morrow. 
Without one cloud of strife or sorrow. 
And when the God to whom we pay 
In jest our homages to-day 
Shall come to claim, no more in jest, 
His rightful empire o'er thy breast, 
Benignant may his aspect be, 
'His yoke the truest liberty: 
And if a tear his power confess, 
Be it a tear of happiness. 
It shall be so. The Muse displays 
The future to her votary's gaze ; 
Prophetic rage my bosom swells — 
I taste the cake — I hear the bells ! 
From Conduit Street the close array 
Of chariots barricades the way 
To where I see, with outstretched hand, 
Majestic, thy great kinsman stand, ^ 
And half unbend his brow of pride, 
As welcoming so fair a bride. 
Gay favors, thick as flakes of snow, 
Brighten St. George's portico: 
Within I see the chancel's pale, 
The orange flowers, the Brussels veil, 
The page on which those fingers white, 
Still trembling from the awful rite, 

1 The statue of Mr. Pitt in Hanover Square. 



296 BALLADS AND LYRICS. 

For tlie last time shall faintly trace 
The name of Stanhope's noble race. 
I see kind faces round thee pressing, 
I hear kind voices whisper blessing; 
And with those voices mino-les mine, — 
All good attend my Valentine I 

Lord Macaulay, 
St. Valentine's Day, 1851. 



AUF WIEDERSEHEN! 

SUMMER. 

The little gate was reached at last, 
Half hid in lilacs down the lane; 
She pushed it wide, and, as she past, 
A wistful look she backward cast. 
And said, ^' Auf Wiedersehen ! " 

With hand on latch, a vision white 

Linorered reluctant, and aijain 
Half doubtino; if she did ario-ht, 
Soft as the dews that fell that night, 
She said, '•' Auf Wiedersehen ! " 

The lamp's clear gleam flits up the stair; 

I linger in delicious pain; 
Ah, in that chamber, whose rich air 
To breathe in thought I scarcely dare, 

Thinks she, ^'' Auf Wiedersehen ! " 

^T is thirteen years ; once more I press 
The turf that silences the lane; 



DOROTHY Q. 297 

I hear the rustle of her dress, 
I smell the lilacs, and — ah, yes, 
I hear ^^ Auf Wiedersehen / '* 

Sweet piece of bashful maiden art I 

The Eno-lish words had seemed too fain. 

But these — they drew us heart to heart, 

Yet held us tenderly apart; 

She said, ^' Auf Wiedersehen I '' 

James Russell Lowell. * 



DOKOTHY Q.2 

A FAMILY PORTRAIT. 



Grandmother's mother: her age, I guess, 
Thirteen summers, or something less; 
Girlish bust, but womanly air; 
Smooth, square forehead with uproUed hair, 

1 James Russell Lowell, the son of the Rev. Charles Low- 
ell, and descended from an old and distinguished New Eng- 
land family, was born in Cambridge, Massachusetts, in 1819. 
He graduated from Harvard College in 1838, studied law and 
was admitted to the bar, which he soon deserted for literature. 
In 1855 he was appointed to succeed Mr. Longfellow as professor 
uf belles-lettres in Harvard College, a position which he still 
retains. He has taken the highest rank in American literature 
as critic, essayist, satirist, and poet. He was appointed United 
States minister to Spain in 1877, and in 1880 was promoted to 
the higher position of United States minister at London, a post 
which he now holds. 

2 Dorothy Quincy married Edward Jackson and thus became 
the ancestress of the poet. The portrait which is the subject of 
the poem is in the possession of Dr. Holmes. 



298 BALLADS AND LYRICS 

Lips that lover has never kissed; 
Taper fingers and slender wrist: 
Hanging sleeves of stiff brocade; 
So they painted the little maid. 

On her hand a parrot green 

Sits unmoving and broods serene. 

Hold up the canvas full in view, — 

Look! there 's a rent the light shines through, 

Dark with a century's fringe of dust, — 

That was a Red- Coat's rapier-thrust! 

Such is the tale the lady old, 

Dorothy's daughter's daughter, told. 

Who the painter was none may tell, — 
One whose best was not over well; 
Hard and dry, it must be confessed, 
Flat as a rose that has long been pressed; 
Yet in her cheek the hues are bright, 
Dainty colors of red and white, 
And in her slender shape are seen 
Hint and promise of stately mien. 

Look not on her with eyes of scorn, — 
Dorothy Q. was a lady born ! 
Ay! since the galloping Normans came, 
England's annals have known her name; 
And still to the three-hilled rebel town 
Dear is that ancient name's renown, 
For many a civic wreath they won, 
The youthful sire and the gray -haired son. 

O Damsel Dorothy! Dorothy Q.l 
Strange is the gift that I owe to you ; 
Such a gift as never a king 



DOROTHY Q. 299 

Save to daughter or son might bring, — 
All my tenure of heart and hand ; 
All my title to house and land ; 
Mother and sister and child and wife 
And joy and sorrow and death and life! 

What if a hundred years ago 

Those close-shut lips had answered No, 

When forth the tremulous question came 

That cost the maiden her Norman name. 

And under the folds that look so still 

The bodice swelled with the bosom's thrill? 

Should I be I, or would it be 

One tenth another, to nine tenths me? 

Soft is the breath of a maiden's Yes : 

Not the ligjht gossamer stirs with less; 

But never a cable that holds so fast 

Through all the battles of wave and blast, 

And never an echo of speech or song 

That lives in the babblins; air so Ions;! 

There were tones in the voice that whispered then 

You may hear to-day in a hundred men. 

lady and lover, how faint and far 
Your images hover, — and here we are, 
Solid and stirring in flesh and bone, — 
Edward's and Dorothy's — all their own, — 
A goodly record for Time to show 

Of a syllable spoken so long ago! — 

Shall I bless you, Dorothy, or forgive 

For the tender whisper that bade me live? 

It shall be a blessing, my little maid! 

1 will heal the stab of the Red-Coat's blade, 



sai 



300 BALLADS AND LYRICS. 

And freshen the gold of the tarnished frame, 
And gild with a rhyme jour household name; 
So vou shall smile on us brave and bright 
As first you greeted the morning's light, 
And live untroubled by woes and fears 
Throucrh a second vouth of a hundred rears. 

Oliver Wendell Holmes. 



WHAT MR. KOBINSON THINKS.^ 

GuvENER B. is a sensible man ; 

He stays to his home an' looks arter his folks ; 
He draws his furrer ez straight ez he can, 
An' into nobody's tater-patch pokes ; 
But John P. 
Bobinson he 
Sez he wunt vote fer Guvener B. 



U.'' 



My ! ain't it terrible ? Wut shall we d 

We can't never choose him, o' course, — thet 's fiat; 

Guess we shall hev to come round, (don't you ?) 

An' go in fer thunder an' guns, an' all that ; 

Fer John P. 

Robinson he 

Sez he wunt vote fer Guvener B. 

Gineral C. is a dreffle smart man : 

He 's ben on all sides thet give places or pelf; 



1 This satire was directed against the Mexican war, which was 
forced upon the country in 1845, by the South, in conformity 
frith their policy of an extension of slave territory. 



WHAT MR. ROBINSOW THINKS. 301 

But consistency still wuz a part of his plan, — 

He 's ben true to one party, — an' thet is himself ; 
So John P. 
Robinson he 
Sez he shall vote fer Gineral C. 

Gineral C. he goes in fer the war ; 

He don't vally principle more 'n an old cud; 
Wut did God make us raytional creeturs fer, 
But glory an' gunpowder, plunder an' blood? 
So John P. 
Robinson he 
Sez he shall vote fer Gineral C. 

We were gittin' on nicely up here to our village. 

With good old idees o' wut 's right an' wut ain't, 
We kind o' thought Christ went agin war an' pillage, 
An' thet eppyletts worn't the best mark of a saint ; 
But John P. 
Robinson he 
Sez this kind o' thing 's an exploded idee. 

The side of our country must oilers be took, 

An' Presidunt Polk, you know, he is our country, — 
An' the ano;el thet writes all our sins in a book 
Puts the debit to him, an' to us the per contry ; 
An' John P. 
Robinson he 
Sez this is his view o' the thino; to a T. 

Parson Wilbur he calls all these aro^imunts lies: 

Sez they 're nothin' on airth but ]e^i fee, faw^ fum , 

^n' thet all this big talk of our destinies 
Is half on it ign'ance, an' t' other half rum ; 



B02 ballIds axd lyrics. 

But John P. 
Robinson he 
Sez it ain't no sech thing ; an' of course so must w& 

Parson Wilbur sez lie never heerd in his life 

Thet th' Apostles rigged out in their swaller-tail coats 
An' marched round in front of a drum an' a fife. 
To git some on 'em office, an' some on 'em votes ; 
But John P. 
Robinson he 
Sez they didn't know everythin' down in Judee. 

Wal, it 's a marcv we 've s^ut folks to tell us 

The rights an' the wrongs o' these matters, I vow, 
God sends country lawyers, an' other wise fellers, 
To start the world's team wen it sjits in a slousrh : 
Fer John P. 
Robinson he 
Sez the world '11 go risfht. e£ he hollers out Gee I 
James Russell Lowell. 



THE BALLAD OF THE OYSTERMAI^. 

It was a tall young oysterman lived by the river- side ; 
His shop was just upon the bank, his boat was on the 

tide ; 
The daughter of a fisherman, that was so straight and 

slim, 
Lived over on the other bank, ris^ht opposite to him. 

It was the pensive oysterman that saw a lovely maid 
Upon a moonlight evening, a sitting in the shade; 



J 



BALLAD OF THE OYSTERMAN. 303 

He saw her wave her handkerchief, as much as if to say, 
**I'm wide awake, young oysterman, and all the folks 
away." 

Then up arose the oysterman, and to himself said he, 
"I guess I'll leave the skiff at home, for fear that 

folks should see ; 
I read it in the story-book, that, for to kiss his dear, 
Leander swam the Hellespont, — and I will swim this 

here." 

And he has leaped into the waves, and crossed the 

shining stream, 
And he has clambered up the bank all in the moonlight 

gleam ; 
O there were kisses sweet as dew, and words as soft as 

rain, -— 
But they have heard the father's step, and in he leaps 



Out spoke the ancient fisherman, — " O what was that, 
my daughter ? ' ' 

" 'T was nothing but a pebble, sir, I threw into the 
water." 

** And what is that, pray tell me, love, that paddles o£t 
so fast?" 

** It 's nothing but a porpoise, sir, that 's been a swim- 
ming past." 

Out spoke the ancient fisherman, — "Now bring me 

my harpoon ! 
I '11 get into my fishing-boat, and fix the fellow soon." 
Down fell that pretty innocent, as falls a snow-white 

lamb, 
Her hair drooped round her pallid cheeks, like seaweed 

on a clam. 



t^pit.yaa 



304 BALLADS AND LYRICS. 

Alas for those two lovinor ones ! she waked not from 

her swound, 
And he was taken with the cramp, and in the waves 

was drowned ; 
But Fate has metamorphosed them, in pity of their woe, 
And now they keep an oyster-shop for mermaids down 

below. 

Oliver Wendell Holmes. 



THE SPECTRE PIG. 

A BALLAD. 

It was the stalwart butcher man, 
That knit his swarthy brow, 

And said the gentle Pig must die, 
And sealed it with a vow. 

And ! it was the orentle Pig: 
Lay stretched upon the ground. 

And ah ! it was the cruel knife 
His little heart that found. 

They took him then, those wicked men, 

They trailed him all along; 
They put a stick between his lips. 

And throuo;h his heels a thongr ; 

And round and round an oaken beam 
A hempen cord they flung. 

And, like a mighty pendulum. 
All solemnly he swung. 




THE SPECTRE PIG. 305 

Now say thy prayers, thou sinful man, 

And think what thou hast done. 
And read thy catechism well, 

Thou bloody-minded one ; 

For if his sprite should walk by night, 

It better were for thee, 
That thou wert mouldering in the ground, 

Or bleaching in the sea. 

It was the savage butcher then. 

That made a mock of sin, 
And swore a very wicked oath. 

He did not care a pin. 

It was the butcher's youngest son, — 

His voice was broke with sighs, 
And with his pocket handkerchief 

He wiped his little eyes ; 

All young and ignorant was he, 

But innocent and mild. 
And in his soft simplicity 

Out spoke the tender child: — 

'* O father, father, list to me; 
The Pig is deadly sick, 
And men have hung him by his heels, 
And fed him with a stick." 

It was the bloody butcher then, 

That laughed as he would die. 
Yet did he soothe the sorrowinor child. 

And bid him not to cry : — 
20 



306 BALLADS AND LYRICS. 

'' O Nathan, Nathan, what 's a Pig, 
That thou shouldst weep and wail! 
Come, bear thee like a butcher's child, 
And thou shalt have his tail! " 

It was the butcher's daughter then, 

So slender and so fair, 
That sobbed as if her heart would break, 

And tore her yellow hair; 

And thus she spoke in thrilling tone, — 
Fast fell the tear-drops big, — 
*' Ah! woe is me! Alas! Alas ! 

The Pig ! The Pig ! The Pig ! ' ' 

o o o 

Then did her wicked father's lips 

Make merry with her woe, 
And call her many a naughty name, 

Because she whimpered so. 

Ye need not weep, ye gentle ones, 
In vain your tears are shed. 

Ye cannot wash his crimson hand. 
Ye cannot soothe the dead. 

The bright sun folded on his breast 

His robes of rosy flame. 
And softly over all the west 

The shades of evening came. 

He slept, and troops of murdered Pigs 
Were busy with his dreams; 

Loud rang their wild, unearthly shrieks, 
Wide yawned their mortal seams. 



*immmmmmmma^K^mm^=3mmmimmmimm warn 




THE SPECTRE PIG. 307 



The clock struck twelve; the Dead hath heard; 

He opened both his eyes, 
And sullenly he shook his tail 

To lash the feeding flies. 

One quiver of the hempen cord, — 

One struo^orle and one bound, — 
With stiffened limb and leaden eye, 

The Pis; was on the oround! 

And straight towards the sleeper's house 

His fearful way he wended; I 

And hooting owl, and hovering bat, I 

On midniojht wing^ attended. f 

Back flew the bolt, up rose the latch, 

And open swung the door, 
And little mincino; feet were heard 

Pat, pat along the floor. 

Two hoofs upon the sanded floor. 

And two upon the bed; 
And they are breathing side by side, 

The livinoj and the dead! 

'* Now wake, now wake, thou butcher man I 
What makes thy cheek so pale ? 
Take hold! take hold ! thou dost not fear 
To clasp a spectre's tail? '' 

Untwisted every winding coil; 

The shuddering wretch took hold, 
All like an icicle it seemed, 

So tapering and so cold. 



308 BALLADS AND LYRICS. 

*' Thou com' St with me, thou butcher man! '* — 
He strives to loose his grasp, 
But, faster than the clinging vine, 
Those twining spirals clasp. 

And open, open swung the door, 

And, fleeter than the wind, 
The shadowy spectre swept before, 

The butcher trailed behind. 

Fast fled the darkness of the nio-ht, 

And morn rose faint and dim; 
They called full loud, they knocked full long. 

They did not waken him. 

Straight, straight towards that oaken beam, 

A trampled pathway ran; 
A ghastly shape was swinging there, — 

It was the butcher man. 

Oliver Wendell Holmes. 



A EHYMED LESSON. 



Some words on Language may be well applied, 
And take them kindly, though they touch your pride ; 
Words lead to things; a scale is more precise, — 
Coarse speech, bad grammar, swearing, drinking, vice. 

Our cold Northeaster's icy fetter clips 
The native freedom of the Saxon lips; 
See the brown peasant of the plastic South, 
How all his passions play about his mouth! 
\Vith us, the feature that transmits the soul, 
A frozen, passive, palsied breathing-hole. 



A RHYMED LESSON, 309 

The crampy shackles of the ploughboy's walk 

Tie the small muscles when he strives to talk; 

Not all the pumice of the polished town 

Can smooth this roughness of the barnyard down; 

Rich, honored, titled, he betrays his race 

By this one mark, — he 's awkward in the face; — 

Nature's rude impress, long before he knew 

The sunny street that holds the sifted few. 

It can't be helped, though, if we 're taken young. 

We gain some freedom of the lips and tongue; 

But school and college often try in vain 

To break the padlock of our boyhood's chain : 

One stubborn word will prove this axiom true, — 

No quondam rustic can enunciate view. 

A few brief stanzas may be well employed 

To speak of errors we can all avoid. 

Learning condemns beyond the reach of hope 
The careless lips that speak of soap for soap; 
Her edict exiles from her fair abode 
The clownish voice that utters road for road; 
Less stern to him, who calls his coat a coat, 
And steers his boat, believing it a boat. 
She pardoned one, our classic city's boast. 
Who said, at Cambridge, most instead of most, 
But knit her brows and stamped her angry foot 
To hear a Teacher call a root a root. 

Once more; speak clearly, if you speak at all; 
Carve every word before you let it fall ; 
Don't, like a lecturer or dramatic star. 
Try over hard to roll the British E, ; 
Do put your accents in the proper spot ; 
Don't, — let me beg you, — don't say " How? " for 
^^AVhat?" 



310 



BALLADS AND LYRICS. 



And, when you stick on conversation's burrs, 
DonH strew your pathway with those dreadful urs, 
Oliver Wendell Holmes. 



THE ROSE UP0:N^ MY BALCONY. 

The rose upon my balcony, the morning air perfuming. 
Was leafless all the winter time and pining for the 

spring; 
You ask me why her breath is sweet, and why her 

cheek is blooming: 
It is because the sun is out and birds be^in to sinor. 



The nightingale, whose melody is through the green- 
wood rinorino:. 

Was silent when the bouorhs were bare and winds were 
blowing keen. 

And if, Mamma, vou ask of me the reason of his sinoj- 
ing,. 

It is because the sun is out and all the leaves are 



Thus each performs his part. Mamma: the birds have 
found their voices. 

The blowing rose a flush. Mamma, her bonny cheek to 
dye; 

And there 's sunshine in my heart, Mamma, which 
wakens and rejoices, 

And so I sing and blush, Mamma, and that 's the rea- 
son why. 

AViLLiAM Makepeace Thackeray.^ 

Vanity Fair. 

1 William Makepeace Thackeray, born at Calcutta, in 
1811, was educated at the Charter House, aud at Cambridge 



^~n.Jf^:^ 



r 



GREEN FIELDS OF ENGLAND, 311 



gree:n^ fields of England. 

Green fields of England ! wheresoe'er 
Across this watery waste we fare, 
Your image at our hearts we bear, 
Green fields of England, everywhere. 

Sweet eyes in England, I must flee 
Past where the waves' last confines be, 
Ere your loved smile I cease to see. 
Sweet eyes in England, dear to me. 

Dear home in England, safe and fast 
If but in thee my lot be cast, 
The past shall seem a nothing past 
To thee, dear home, if won at last; 
Dear home in England, won at last. 

Akthur Hugh Clough.^ 

University. He inherited a handsome property, but lost it, 
studied law, and finally took to literature. He wrote many 
charming poems, but his fame rests upon his novels, which 
have placed him at the head of Enghsh novehsts. He died in 
1863. 
\ ' 1 Arthur Hugh Clough was born at Liverpool in 1820. 

He was educated at Rugby and Oxford, and was then a tutor 
for some time in Oriel College. In 1852 he visited the United 
States, and passed some time in Cambridge, Massachusetts. 
He died at Florence, Italy, in 1861. Besides a volume of very 
remarkable poems, he published a translation of Plutarch, in 
1859. 



312 BALLADS AND LYRICS. 



THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS. 

The melancholy days are come, the saddest of th« 

year. 
Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows 

brown and sear. 
Heaped in the hollows of the grove, the withered leavea 

lie dead : 
They rustle to the eddying gust, and to the rabbit's 

tread. 
The robin and the wren are flown, and from the shrubs 

the jay; 
And from the wood-top calls the crow, through all the 

gloomy day. 

Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that 
lately sprang and stood. 

In brio-hter lio-ht and softer airs, a beauteous sister- 
hood? 

Alas! thev all are in their o-raves : the gentle race of 
flowers 

Are lying in their lowly beds, with the fair and good 
of ours. 

The rain is falling where they lie ; but the cold No- 
vember rain 

Calls not, from out the gloomy earth, the lovely ones 



The wind-flower and the violet, they perished long 
ago; 

And the brier-rose and the orchis died amid the sum- 
mer glow ; 

But on the hill the golden-rod, and the aster in the 
wood. 



r 



THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS. 313 

And the yellow sunflower by the brook, in autumn 
beauty stood, 

Till fell the frost from the clear, cold heaven, as falls 
the plague on men, 

And the brightness of their smile was gone from up- 
land, glade, and glen. 

And now when comes the calm, mild day, as still such 
days will come. 

To call the squirrel and the bee from out their winter 
home ; 

When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though all 
the trees are still, 

And twinkle in the smoky light the waters of the 
rill, — 

The south wind searches for the flowers whose fra- 
grance late he bore. 

And sighs to find them in the wood and by the stream 
no more; 

And then I think of one who in her youthful beauty 

died, 
The fair, meek blossom that grew up, and faded by my 

side : 
In the cold moist earth we laid her when the forest cast 

the leaf. 
And we wept that one so lovely should have a life so 

brief ; 
Tet not unmeet it was, that one, like that young friend 

of ours. 
So gentle and so beautiful, should perish with the 

flowers. 

William Cullex Buyaxt.^ 

1 William Cullen Bryant was burn at Cumraington, 
Massachusetts, in 1794. At the age of thirteen he published two 



314 BALLADS AND LYRICS. 



THE RAVEN. 

OxcE upon a midnight dreary, while 1 pondered, weak 

and weary, 
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten 

lore — 
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came 

a tapping, 
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber 

door. 
**'Tis some visitor," I muttered, *' tapping at my 

chamber door — 

Onlv this and nothing: more." 

'Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak Decem- 
ber, 

And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon 
the floor. 

Eagerly I wished the morrow ; vainly I had sought to 
borrow 

From my books surcease of sorrow — sorrow for the lost 
Lenore — 

For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels 
named Lenore — 

Nameless here forevermore. 

poems entitled The Embargo and The Spanish Revolution, the 
former a political satire. He studied at Williams College, and 
then practised law for several years. In 1816 he published Than- 
atopsis^ a poem which gave him immediate reputation. In 1825 
he removed to New York, and accepted the editorship of the 
Evening Post, which he held until his death, in 1878. He made 
several journeys in Europe, of which he published descriptions, 
•I'^d translated Homer, besides writing a small number of short 
PAcms. 



THE RAVEN. 315 

A.nd the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple 

curtain 
Thrilled me — filled me with fantastic terrors never felt 

before ; 
So that now, to still the beatino; of mv heart, I stood 

repeating, 
'' 'Tis some visitor, entreating entrance at my chamber 

door — 
Some late visitor, entreating entrance at my chamber 

door; 

This it is, and nothing more." • 

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no 
longer, 

** Sir," said I, '* or Madam, truly your forgiveness I 
implore; 

But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came 
rapping. 

And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my cham- 
ber door, 

That I scarce was sure I heard you " — here I opened 
wide the door, — 

Darkness there, and nothing more. 

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there, 

wondering^, fearino^. 
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to 

dream before; 
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave 

no token, 
A.nd the only word there spoken was the whispered 

word, " Lenore? " 
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the 

word * ' Lenore ! ' ' 

Merely this, and nothing more. 



316 BALLADS AND LYRICS. 

Back into tlie chamber turning, all my soul within me 
burning, 

Soon again I heard a tapping something louder than 
before. 

''Surely/' said I, *• surely that is something at my 
window lattice; 

Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery 
explore — 

Let my heart be still a moment, and this mystery ex- 
plore : — 

"Tis the wind, and nothing more.'' 

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a f 

flirt and flutter, ' [ 

In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of f 

yore. j 

Not the least obeisance made he ; not a minute stopped ! 

or stayed he, ! 

But, with mien ot lord or lady, perched above my J 

chamber door — 1 

Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber ? 

door — 

Perched, and sat, and nothing more. 

Then this ebony bird beguilinor my sad fancy into 
smiling. 

By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it 
wore, 

* Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," said 
I, '' art sure no craven. 

Ghastly grim and ancient Raven, wandering from the 
Xightly shore — 

Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Xight's Plu- 
tonian shore." 

Quoth the Raven, '' Nevermore." 



THE RAVEN, 317 

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse 
so plainly, 

Though its answer little meaning — little relevancy 
bore ; 

For we cannot help agreeing that no living human be- 
ing 

Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his 
chamber door — 

Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his 
chamber door, 

With such name as " Nevermore." 

But the Raven, sitting lonely on that placid bust, 

spoke only 
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did 

outpour; 
Nothing farther then he uttered ; not a feather then he 

fluttered — 
Till I scarcely more than muttered, '^ Other friends 

have, flown before — 
On the morrow lie will leave me, as my Hopes have 

flown before." 

Then the bird said, "Nevermore." 

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly 

spoken, 
"' Doubtless,'' said I, " what it utters is its only 

stock and store. 
Caught from some unhappy master, whom unmerciful 

Disaster 
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one 

burden bore — 
Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden 

bore 

Of ' Never — Nevermore.' '' 



318 BALLADS AND LYRICS. 

But the Raven still beguiling all my sad soul into 

smilins:, 
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird 

and bust and door; 
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to 

linking: 
Fanc} unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of 

yore — 
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous 

bird of yore — 

Meant in croaking " Nevermore.'* 

This 1 sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable ex- 
pressing 

To the fowl, whose fiery eyes now burned into my 
bosom's core ; 

This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease 
reclinino- 

On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light 
gloated o'er. 

But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light 
gloatingr o'er 

She shall press, ah, nevermore! 

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed 

from an unseen censer * 

Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the 

tufted floor. 
'•'AVretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee— by 

these ano;els he hath sent thee 
Respite — respite and nepenthe from thy memories of 

Lenore ! 
Quaff, O quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost 

Lenore ! ' ' 

Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore." 



THE RAVEN, 319 

'Prophet!'' said I, '* thing of evil! — prophet still, if 
bird or devil! 

Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee 
here ashore, 

Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land en- 
chanted — 

On this home by Horror haunted — tell me truly, I im- 
plore — 

Is there — is there balm in Gilead ? — tell me — tell 
me, I implore! " 

Quoth the E,aven, *' Nevermore." 

** Prophet!" said I, 'Hhing of evil — prophet still, if 

bird or devil! 
By that Heaven that bends above us — by that God 

we both adore — 
Tell this soul with sorrow laden, if, within the distant 

Aidenn, 
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name 

Lenore — 
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels 

name Lenore." 

Quoth the Kaven, "Nevermore." 

" Be that word oui .sign of parting, bird or fiend!" I 
shrieked, upstarting — 

" Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plu- 
tonian shore! 

Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul 
hath spoken ! 

Leave my loneliness unbroken ! — quit the bust above 
my door! 

Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form 
from off my door! " 

Quoth the Raven, " Nevermore." 



320 



BALLADS AND LYRICS. 



And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is 



sittinor 



On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber 

door; 
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is 

dreaming. 
And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his 

shadow on the floor; 
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on 

the floor 

Shall be lifted — Nevermore! 

Edgar Allan Poe.* 



IN SCHOOL-DAYS. 

Still sits the school-house by the road, 
A rao-g^ed be^g^ar sunning:; * 

Around it still the sumachs grow, 
And blackberry- vines are runninor. 

Within, the master's desk is seen. 
Deep scarred by raps official; 

The warping floor, the battered seats, 
The jack-knife's carved initial ; 



^ Edgar Allan Foe, born in Boston in 1809, was educated 
ill Baltimore and in England, and studied at the University of 
Virginia, after which he passed a year in Europe. He wrote for 
and edited various magazines, and it was at this time he pro- 
duced his extraordinary stories. The Raven is the one work, 
however, which has attained world-wide popularity and given 
Poe enduring fame. His mind was of a gloomy and morbid 
cast, which was enhanced by a loose life and intemperate habits. 
He died at Baltimore in 1849. 



IN SCHOOL-DAYS. 321 

The charcoal frescos on its wall; 

Its door's worn sill, betraying 
The feet that, creeping slow to school, 

AA'ent storming out to playing! 

Long years ago a winter sun 

Shone over it at setting ; 
Lit up its western window-panes, 

And low eaves' icy fretting. 

It touched the tangled golden curls, 

And brown eyes full of grieving, 
Of one who still her steps delayed 

When all the school were leavinor. 

o 

For near her stood the little boy 

Her childish favor singled : 
His cap pulled low upon a face 

Where pride and shame were mingled. 

Pushino; with restless feet the snow 

To rio;ht and left he lino-ered; 
As restlessly her tiny hands 

The blue-checked apron fingered. 

He saw her lift her eyes; he felt 

The soft hand's lig^ht caressino:, 
And heard the tremble of her voice, 

As if a fault confessing. 

** I 'm sorry that I spelt the word: 
I hate to go above you, 
Because," — the brown eyes lower fell, — 
*' Because, you see, I love you! " 
21 



322 BALLADS AND LYRICS, 

Still memory to a gray-haired man 
That sweet child-face is showinfj. 

Dear girl ! the grasses on her grave 
Have forty years been growing ! 

He lives to learn, in life's hard school, 
How few who pass above him 

Lament their triumph and his loss, 
Like her, — because they love him. 

John Greenleaf Whittier.* 



ALADDIN. 

When I was a beggarly boy. 

And lived in a cellar damp, 
I had not a friend nor a toy, 

But I had Aladdin's lamp; 
When I could not sleep for cold, 

I had fire enough in my brain. 
And builded, with roofs of gold, 

My beautiful castles in Spain ! 



Since then I have toiled day and night, 
I have money and power good store. 

But I 'd give all my lamps of silver bright. 
For the one that is mine no more ; 

1 John Greenleaf Whittier was born at Haverhill, Mas- 
sachusetts, in 1808. He was brought up by his parents in the 
principles of the Quaker belief, to which he has always adhered. 
He never went to college. He edited ih^New England Review^ 
and afterwards the Pennsylvania Freeman^ an organ of the 
anti-slavery party, of which he was a prominent member. He 
still lives in quiet retirement at Danvers, Massachusetts. 




"And there sot Huldy all alone." See p. 323. 



THE COURTIJSr. 323 

Take, Fortune, whatever you choose, 

You gave, and may snatch again ; 
I have nothing 'twould pain me to lose, 

For I own no more castles in Spain ! 

James Russell Lowell. 



THE COURTIN'. 



God makes sech nights, all white an' still, 
Fur 'z you can look or listen, 

Moonshine an' snow on field an' hill, 
All silence an' all glisten. 

Zekle crep' up quite unbeknown 
An' peeked in thru' the winder. 

An' there sot Huldy all alone, 
'ith no one nia;h to hender. 

A fireplace filled the room's one side, 

With half a cord o' wood in, — 
There warn't no stoves (tell comfort died) 
\ To bake ye to a puddin'. 

The wa'nut logs shot sparkles out 
Towards the pootiest, bless her, 

An' leetle flames danced all about 
The chiny on the dresser. 

Agin the chimbley crook-necks hung, 
An' in amongjst 'em rusted 

The ole queen 's-arm thet gran'ther Young 
Fetched back from Concord busted. 



324 BALLADS AND LYRICS. 

The very room, coz she was in, 
Seemed warm from floor to ceilin', 

An' she looked full ez rosy agin 
Ez the apples she was peelin'. 

'Twas kin' o' kingdom-come to look 

On sech a blessed cretur, 
A dogrose blushin' to a brook 

AinH modester nor sweeter. 

He was six foot o' man, A 1, 
Clear grit an' human natur'; 

None could n't quicker pitch a ton 
Nor dror a furrer straighter. 

He 'd sparked it with full twenty gals, 
Hed squired 'em, danced 'em, druv 'em, 

Fust this one, an' then thet, by spells, — 
All is, he could n't love 'em. 

But long^ o' her his veins 'ould run 
All crinkly like curled maple. 

The side she breshed felt full o' sun 
Ez a south slope in Ap'il. 

She thoug^ht no v'ice hed sech a swino^ 

Ez hisn in the choir; 
My! when he made Ole Hunderd ring. 

She knowed the Lord was nigher. 

An' she 'd blush scarlit, right in prayer, 
When her new meetin'-bunnet 

Felt somehow thru' its crown a pair 
O' blue eyes sot upon it. 



I 



I 



THE COURTIN\ 325 

Thet night, I tell ye, she looked some I 

She seemed to 've gut a new soul, 
For she felt sar tin- sure he 'd come, 

Down to her very shoe-sole. 

She heered a foot, an' knowed it lu, 

A-raspin' on the scraper, — 
All ways to once her feelins flew 

Like sparks in burnt-up paper! 

He kin' o' I'itered on the mat, 

Some doubtfle o' the sekle, 
His heart kep' goin' pity-pat, 

But hern went pity Zekle. 

An' yit she gin her cheer a jirk 

Ez though she wished him furder. 
An' on her apples kep' to work, 

Parin' away like murder. 

" You want to see my Pa, I s'pose? " 

" Wal .... no .... I come dasignin' " — 
" To see my Ma? She 's sprinklin' clo'es 

Ao-in to-morrer's i'nin'." 

To say why gals acts so or so, 

Or don't, 'ould be presumin'; 
]\Iebby to mean yes an' say no 

Comes nateral to women. 

He stood a spell on one foot fust. 

Then stood a spell on t' other. 
An' on which one he felt the wust 

He could n't ha' told ye nuther. 



326 BALLADS AXD LYRICS. 

Says he, "I 'd better call agin; " 
Says she, '' Think likely, Mister: " 

Thet last word pricked him like a pin, 
An' .... Wal, he up an' kist her. 

When Ma bimeby upon 'em sHps, 

Huldy sot pale ez ashes, 
All kin' o' smily roun' the lips 

An' teary roun' the lashes. 

For she was jes' the quiet kind 

TVhose naturs never vary, 
Like streams that keep a summer mind 

Snowhid in Jenooary. 

The blood clost roun' her heart felt glued 

Too tight for all expressin', 
Tell mother see how metters stood. 

An' orin 'em both her blessin'. 

o 

Then her red come back like the tide 

Down to the Bay o' Fundy, 
An' all I know is they was cried 

In meetin' come nex' Sunday. 

James Kussell Lowell. 



NUREMBERG. 



Ln' the valley of the Pegnitz, where across broad mead- 
ow-lands 
Hise the blue Franconian mountains, Nuremberg, the 

ancient, stands. 



NUREMBERG, 327 

Quaint old town of toil and traffic, quaint old town of 

art and song, 
Memories haunt thj pointed gables, like the rooks that 

round them throng: 

Memories of the Middle Ages, when the Emperors, 
rough and bold. 

Had their dwelling in thy castle, time-defying, centu- 
ries old; 

And thy brave and thrifty burghers boasted, in their 

uncouth rhyme. 
That their great imperial city stretched its hand through 

every clime. 

In the court-yard of the castle, bound with many an 

iron band, 
Stands the mighty linden planted by Queen Cuni- 

gunde's hand ; 

On the square the oriel window, where in old heroic 

days 
Sat the poet Melchior, singing Kaiser Maximilian's 

praise. 

Everywhere I see around me rise the wondrous world 

of Art: 
Fountains wrought with richest sculpture standing in 

the common mart; 

And above cathedral doorways saints and bishops 

carved in stone, 
By a former age commissioned as apostles to our 

own. 



328 BALLADS AND LYRICS. 

In the church of sainted Sebald sleeps enshrined his 

holy dust, 
And in bronze the Twelve Apostles guard from age to 

age their trust; 

In the church of sainted Lawrence stands a pix of 

sculpture rare, 
Like the foamy sheaf of fountains, rising through the 

painted air. 

Here, when Art was still religion, with a simple, rev- 
erent heart, 

Lived and labored Albrecht DUrer, the Evangelist of 
Art; 

Hence in silence and in sorrow, toiling still with busy 

hand, 
r^ike an emigrrant he wandered, seekino; for the Better 

Land. 

Emigravit is the inscription on the tombstone where 

he lies; 
Dead he is not, but departed, — for the artist never 

dies. 

Fairer seems the ancient city, and the sunshine seems 

more fair, 
That he once has trod its pavement, that he once has 

breathed its air. 

Through these streets so broad and stately, these ob- 
scure and dismal lanes, 

Walked of yoi-e the Mastersingers, chanting rude po 
etic strains. 



NUREMBERG. 329 

From remote and sunless suburbs came they to the 

friendly guild, 
Building nests in Fame's great temple, as in spouts 

the sparrows build. 

As the weaver plied the shuttle, wove he too the mys- 
tic rhyme, 

And the smith his iron measures hammered to the an- 
vil's chime; 

Thankinor God, whose boundless wisdom makes the 

flowers of poesy bloom 
In the forge's dust and cinders, in the tissues of the 

loom. 

Here Hans Sachs, the cobbler-poet, laureate of the 

ire n tie craft, 
Wisest of the Twelve Wise Masters, in hufje folios 

sanoj and lauo;hed. 

But his house is now an ale-house, with a nicely 

sanded floor, 
And a garland in the window, and his face above the 

door; 

Painted by some humble artist, as in Adam Pusch- 

man's song, 
As the old man gray and dove-like, with his great 

beard white and long. 

And at night the swart mechanic comes to drown his 
cark and care. 

Quaffing ale from pewter tankards, in the master's an- 
tique chair. 



'^30 BALLADS AND LYRICS, 

Vanished is the ancient splendor, and before my 

dreamy eye 
Wave these mingling shapes and figm-es, like a faded 

tapestry. 

Not thy Councils, not thy Kaisers, win for thee the 

world's regard, 
But thy painter, Albrecht Diirer, and Hans Sachs thy 

cobbler-bard. 

Thus, O Nuremberg, a wanderer from a region far 

away. 
As he paced thy streets and court-yards, sang in 

thought his careless lay : 

Gathering from the pavement's crevice, as a floweret 

of the soil, 
The nobility of labor, — the long pedigree of toil. 

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 



THE HIGH TIDE ON THE COAST OF 
LINCOLNSHIRE. 

The old mayor climbed the belfry tower. 
The ringers ran by two, by three; 
** Pull, if ye never pulled before; 

Good ringers, pull your best," quoth he. 
*' Play up, play up, O Boston bells! 
Ply all your changes, all your swells, 
Play up ' The Brides of Enderby M " 

Men say it was a stolen tide, — 

The Lord that sent it, He knows all; 




" Pull if ye never pulled before." See p. 3 



30- 



HIGH TIDE IN LINCOLNSHIRE. 331 

But in mine ears doth still abide 

The messa2:e that the bells let fall: 
And there was nought of strange, beside 
The flights of mews and peewits pied. 
By millions crouched on the old sea-walL 

I sat and spun within the door, 

My thread brake off, I raised mine eyes; 

The level sun, like ruddy ore, 
Lay sinking in the barren skies; 

And dark against day's golden death 

She moved where Lindis wandereth, — 

My son's fair wife, Elizabeth. 

** Cusha ! Cusha ! Cusha! " calling, 

Ere the early dews were falling, 

Far away I heard her song. 
'' Cusha! Cusha! " all along; 

Where the reedy Lindis floweth, 
Floweth, floweth, 

From the meads where melick groweth 

Faintly came her milkmg-song. 

*' Cusha! Cusha! Cusha! " calling, 
*' For the dews will soon be fallins: ; 

Leave your meadow grasses mellow, 
Mellow, mellow; 

Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow ; 

Come up, Whitefoot, come up, Lightfoot, 

Quit the stalks of parsley hollow, 
Hollow, hollow: 

Come up, Jetty, rise and follow, 

From the clovers lift your head ; 

Come up, Whitefoot, come up, Lightfoot, 

Come up. Jetty, rise and follow. 

Jetty, to the milking-shed." 



332 BALLADS AND LYBICS. 

If it be long, a}'e, long ago, 

When I be^in to tKink how \on^. 

Again I hear the Lindis flow, 

Swift as an arrow, sharp and strong; 

And all the air it seemeth me 

Is full of floating bells (saith she), 

That ring the tune of Enderbj. 

All fresh the level pasture lay, 
And not a shadow might be seen, 

Save where full five good miles away 
The steeple towered from out the green; 

And lo ! the s^reat bell far and wide 

Was heard in all the country side 

That Saturday at eventide. 

The swannerds where their sedges are 
Moved on in sunset's golden breath, 
The shepherd lads I heard afar. 
And my son's wife, Elizabeth; 
Till floating o'er the grassy sea 
Came down that kindly message free, 
The " Brides of Mavis Enderby." 

Then some looked up into the sky. 
And all along where Lindis flows 

To where the goodly vessels lie. 

And where the lordly steeple shows. 

Thev said, '^ And whv should this thingr be? 

Wliat danger lowers by land or sea ? 

They ring the tune of Enderby! 



For evil news from Mablethorpe, 
Of pirate galleys warping down; 

For ships ashore beyond the scorpe, 

They have not spared to wake the town; 



HIGH TIDE IN LINCOLNSHIRE. 333 

But while the west is red to see, 
And storms be none, and pirates flee. 
Why ring ' The Brides of Enderby '?'' 

I looked without, and lo! my son 

Came ridings down with mio-ht and main. 

He raised a shout as he drew on, 
Till all the welkin rang again, 
*^ Elizabeth! Elizabeth!" 

(A sweeter woman ne'er drew breath 

Than my son's wife, Elizabeth.) 

** The old sea wall (he cried) is down, 
The rising tide comes on apace. 
And boats adrift in yonder town 

Go sailing up the market-place." 
He shook as one that looks on death: 
*' God save you, mother!" straight he saith; 
*' Where is my wife, Elizabeth? 



>> 



** Good son, where Lindis winds away 

With her two bairns I marked her lonsj: 
And ere yon bells began to play, 

Afar I heard her milkino; sono^. " 
He looked across the grassy sea, 
To right, to left, " Ho Enderby! " 
They rang " The Brides of Enderby! " 

With that he cried and beat his breast; 

For lo ! along the river's bed 
A mighty eygre reared his crest, 

And up the Lindis raging sped. 
It swept with thunderous noises loud; 
IShaped like a curling snow-white cloud, 
Or like a demon in a shroud. 



334 BALLADS AND LYRICS. 

And rearing Lindis, backward pressed, 
Shook all her trembling banks amain ; 
Then madly at the eygre's breast 

Flung up her weltering walls again. 
Then banks came down with ruin and rout, — 
Then beaten foam flew round about, — 
Then all the mighty floods were out. 

So far, so fast the eygre drave. 

The heart had hardly time to beat, 

Before a shallow seethino; wave 
Sobbed in the grasses at our feet: 

The feet had hardly time to flee 

Before it brake against the knee, 

And all the world was in the sea. 

Upon the roof we sat that night, 

The noise of bells went sweeping by: 

I marked the lofty beacon light 

Stream from the church tower, red and high, 

A lurid mark and dread to see ; 

And awsome bells they were to me. 

That in the dark rang *' Enderby.'* 



They rang the sailor lads to guide 

From roof to roof who fearless rowed; 

And I, — my son was at my side, 
And yet the ruddy beacon glowed : 

And yet he moaned beneath his breath, 
" O come in life, or come in death ! 

O lost! my love, Elizabeth." 

And iidst thou visit him no more? 

Thou didst, thou didst, my daughter dear I 
The waters laid thee at his door. 



HIGH TIDE IN LINCOLNSHIRE. 335 

Ere yet tlie early dawn was clear. 
Thy pretty bairns in fast embrace, 
The lifted sun shone on thy face, 
Down drifted to thy dwelling-place. 

That flow strewed wrecks about the grass ; 

That ebb swept out the flocks to sea; 
A fatal ebb and flow, alas! 

To many more than mine and me: 
But each will mourn his own (she saith). 
And sweeter woman ne'er drew breath 
Than my son's wife, Elizabeth. 

I shall never hear her more 

By the reedy Lindis' shore, 
** Cusha, Cusha, Cusha ! " calling, 

Ere the early dews be falling; 

I shall never hear her song, 
•* Cusha! Cusha!" all along, 

Where the sunny Lindis floweth, 
Goeth, floweth; 

From the meads where melick groweth, 

When the water, winding down. 

Onward floweth to the town. 

I shall never see her more 

Where the reeds and rushes quiver, 

Shiver, quiver: 
Stand beside the sobbings river. 
Sobbing, throbbing, in its falling. 
To the sandy lonesome shore ; 
I shall never hear her callino^, 
*' Leave your meadow grasses mellow, 

Mellow, mellow; 
Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow; 



336 BALLADS AND LYRICS. 

Come up, WMtefoot, come up. Lightfoot; 
Quit your pipes of parsley hollow, 

Hollow, hollow; 
Come up, Lightfoot, rise and follow; 

Lightfoot, Whitefoot, 
From your clovers lift the hearl ; 
Come up. Jetty, follow, follow, 
Jetty, to the milking shed." 

Jean Ixqelow.^ 



QUA CUR SUM YEXTUS. 

As ships, becalmed at eve, that lay 
With canvas drooping, side by side, 

Two towers of sail at dawn of day 

Are scarce, long leagues apart, descried; 

When fell the night, upsprung the breeze, 
And all the darkling hours they plied. 

Nor dreamt but each the self-same seas 
By each was cleaving, side by side : 

E'en so — but why the tale reveal 

Of those whom, year by year unchanged. 

Brief absence joined anew to feel. 
Astounded, soul from soul estranged ? 

At dead of night theu' sails were filled, 
And onward each rejoicing steered : 

A Jean Ingelow was born in Ipswich, Suffolk, England 
about 1830. She has ^^Titten many poems, and some novels 
which hare attained popularity. 



r 



FIFTIETH BIRTHDAY OF AGASSIZ. 337 

All, neither blame, for neither willed, 
Or wist, what first with dawn appeared ! 

To veer, how vain ! On, onward strain. 
Brave barks ! In light, in darkness too, 

Through winds and tides one compass guides, — 
To that, and your own selves, be true ! 

But O blithe breeze, and O great seas. 
Though ne'er, that earliest parting past. 

On your wide plain they join again. 
Together lead them home at last. 

One port, methought, alike they sought, 
One purpose hold where'er they fare, — 

O bounding breeze, O rushing seas ! 
At last, at last, unite them there ! 

Arthur Hugh Clough. 



THE FIFTIETH BIRTHDAY OF AGASSIZ, 

MAY 28, 1857. 

It was fifty years ago 

In the pleasant month of May, 

In the beautiful Pays de Yaud, 
A child in its cradle lay. 

And Nature, the old nurse, took 

The child upon her knee, 
Saying : " Here is a story-book 

Thy Father has written for thee.'' 
22 



E« 



S88 BALLADS AND LYRICS. 

** Come, wander with me," she said, 
" Into regions yet untrod ; 
And read what is still unread 
In the manuscripts of God." 

And he wandered away and away 
With Nature, the dear old nurse, 

Who sang to him night and day 
The rhymes of the universe. 

And whenever the Avay seemed long, 

Or his heart began to fail, 
She would sing a more wonderful song, 

Or tell a more marvellous tale. 

So she keeps him. still a child. 

And will not let him go, 
Though at times his heart beats wild 

For the beautiful Pays de Vaud ; 

Thoucrh at times he hears in his dreams 
The Ranz des Vaches of old, 

And the rush of mountain streams 
From grlaciers clear and cold ; 

And the mother at home says, " Hark ! 

For his voice I listen and yearn ; 
It is orrowino; late and dark, 

And my boy does not return I " 

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 



« NEW YEAR'S EVE, 339 



*) 



NEW YEAR'S EYE. 
cvi. 

Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky, 
The flying cloud, the frosty light : 
The year is dying in the night ; 

Ring out, wild bells, and let him die. 

Ring out the old, ring in the new. 
Ring, happy bells, across the snow : 
The year is going, let him go ; 

Rins out the false, rinsr in the true. 

Ring out the grief that saps the mind, 
For those that here we see no more ; 
Ring out the feud of rich and poor, 

Ring; in redress to all mankind. 

Ring out a slowly dying cause, 

And ancient forms of party strife ; 
Ring in the nobler modes of life. 

With sweeter manners, purer laws. 

Ring out the want, the care, the sin, 
The faithless coldness of the times ; 
Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymes. 

But ring the fuller minstrel in. 

Ring out false pride in place and blood, 
The civic slander and the spite ; 
Rinoj in the love of truth and rio-ht. 

Ring in the common love of good. 

Ring out old shapes of foul disease; 
Ring out the harrowing lust of gold; 



S40 BALLADS AND LYRICS, 

Ring out the thousand wars of old, 
Ring in the thousand years of peace. 

Ring in the valiant man and free, 
The larger heart, the kindlier hand; 
Ring out the darkness of the land, 
Rinir in the Christ that is to be. 

Alfred Tennyson. 

In Memoriam, 



BREAK, BREAK. 

Break, break, break. 

On thy cold gray stones, O Sea! 
And I would that my tongue could utter 

The tlioughts that arise in me. 

O well for the fisherman's boy. 

That he shouts with his sister at play! 

O well for the sailor lad. 

That he sings in his boat on the bay ! 

And the stately ships go on 

To their haven under the hill ; 
But O for the touch of a vanish'd hand, 

And the sound of a voice that is still! 

Break, break, break, 

At the foot of thy crags, O Sea! 
But the tender grace of a day that is dead 

Will never come back to me. 

Alfred Tennyson. 



A PSALM OF LIFE. 341 



A PSALM OF LIFE. 

Tell me not, in mournful numbers, 

Life is but an empty dream ! 
For the soul is dead that slumbers, 

And things are not what they seem. 

Life is real! Life is earnest! 

And the grave is not its goal; 
Dust thou art, to dust returnest, 

Was not spoken of the soul. 

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, 

Is our destined end or way; 
But to act, that each to-morrow 

Find us farther than to-day. 

Art is long, and Time is fleeting, 

And our hearts, though stout and brave, 

Still, like muffled drums, are beating 
Funeral marches to the ^rave. 

In the world's broad field of battle. 

In the bivouac of Life, 
Be not like dumb, driven cattle! 

Be a hero in the strife ! 

Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant! 

Let the dead Past bury its dead ! 
Act — act in the livino; Present! 

Heart within, and God overhead! 

Lives of great men all remind us 
We can make our lives sublime, 



■vwam 



342 BALLADS AND LYRICS. 

And, departing, leave behind us 
Footprints on the sands of time, — 

Footprints, that perhaps another, 
Sailing o'er life's solemn main, 

A forlorn and shipwrecked brother, 
Seeinsf, shall take heart a^ain. 

Let us, then, be up and doing, 

With a heart for any fate ; 
Still achieving, still pursuing, 

Learn to labor and to wait. 

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 



THE SHIP. 

O SHIP, ship, ship. 

That travellest over the sea, 
What are the tidings, I pray thee, 

Thou bearest hither to me? 

Are they tidings of comfort and joy, 
That shall make me seem to see 

The sweet lips softly moving 
And whispering love to me? 

Or are they of trouble and grief, 
Estrangement, sorrow, and doubt, 

To turn into torture my hopes. 
And drive me from Paradise out? 

O ship, ship, ship. 

That comest over the sea, 



iasfeie 



SIR GALAHAD. 343 

Whatever it be thou bringest, 
Come quickly with it to me. 

Arthur Hugh Clough. 



SIR GALAHAD. 



My good blade carves the casques of men, 

My tough lance thrusteth sure. 
My strength is as the strength of ten, 

Because my heart is pure. 
The shattering trumpet shrilleth high, 

The hard brands shiver on the steel. 
The splinter'd spear-shafts crack and fly. 

The horse and rider reel : 
They reel, they roll in clanging lists. 

And .when the tide of combat stands. 
Perfume and flowers fall in showers, 

That lightly rain from ladies' hands. 

How sweet are looks that ladies bend 

On whom their favors fall ! 
For them I battle till the end, 

To save from shame and thrall: 
But all my heart is drawn above. 

My knees are bow'd in crypt and shrine : 
I never felt the kiss of love. 

Nor maiden's hand in mine. 
More bounteous aspects on me beam, 

Me mightier transports move and thrill ; 
So keep I fair thro* faith and prayer 

A virgin heart in work and will. 



344 BALLADS AND LYRICS. 

When down the stormy crescent goes, 

A light before me swims, 
Between dark stems the forest glows, 

I hear a noise of hymns : 
Then by some secret shrine I ride ; 

I hear a voice, but none are there ; 
The stalls are void, the doors are wide. 

The tapers burning fair. 
Fair gleams the snowy altar cloth, 

The silver vessels sparkle clean, 
The shrill bell rings, the censer swings, 

And solemn chaunts resound between. 

Sometimes on lonely mountain-meres 

I find a magic bark ; 
I leap on board : no helmsman steers : 

I float till all is dark. 
A o-entle sound, an awful lio-ht ! 

Three angels bear the holy Grail : 
With folded feet, in stoles of white, 

On sleeping wings they sail. 
Ah, blessed vision ! blood of God I 

My spirit beats her mortal bars, 
As down dark tides the glory slides, 

And star-like mintjles with the stars. 

When on my goodly charger borne 

Thro' dreaminor towns I g^o, 
The cock crows ere the Christmas morn, 

The streets are dumb with snow. 
The tempest crackles on the leads. 

And, ringing, springs from brand and mail; 
But o'er the dark a glory spreads, 

And gilds the driving hail. 
I leave the plain, T climb the height ; 



SIR GALAHAD, 345 

No branchy thicket shelter yields ; 
But blessed forms in whistling storms 
Fly o'er waste fens and windy fields. 

A maiden knight — to me is given 

Such hope, I know not fear; 
I yearn to breathe the airs of heaven 

That often meet me here. 
I muse on joy that will not cease, 

Pure spaces clothed in living beams, 
Pure lilies of eternal peace, 

Whose odors haunt my dreams ; 
And, stricken by an angeFs hand, 

This mortal armor that I wear, 
This weight and size, this heart and eyes, 

Are touch'd, are turned to finest air. 

The clouds are broken in the sky, 

And thro' the mountain-walls 
A rolling organ-harmony 

Swells up, and shakes and falls. 
Then move the trees, the copses nod, 

Wings flutter, voices hover clear : 
O just and faithful knight of God ! 

Kide on ! the prize is near." 
So pass I hostel, hall, and grange ; 

By bridge and ford, by park and pale, 
AU-arm'd I ride, whate'er betide, 

Until I find the holy Grail. 

Alfred Tennyson. 



M6 



BALLADS AXD LYRICS. 



THE HAPPIEST LAND. 

FROM THE GERMAX. 

There sat one day in quiet. 
By an alehouse on the Rhine, 

Four hale and hearty fellows, 
And drank the precious wine. 

The landlord's daughter filled their cupe, 

Around the rustic board; 
Then sat they all so calm and still, 

And spake not one rude word. 

But when the maid departed, 

A Swabian raised his hand, 
And cried, all hot and flushed with wine, 

•' Long live the Swabian land! 

** The greatest kingdom upon earth 
Cannot with that compare; 
With all the stout and hardy men, 
And the nut-brown maidens there." 

" Hal '' cried a Saxon, laughing, 

And dashed his beard with wine ; 

** I had rather live in Lapland, 

Than that Swabian land of thine ! 



'* The goodliest land on all this earth. 
It is the Saxon land! 
There have I as many maidens 
As finsers ou this hand I '' 



ST. AGNES' EVE. 347 

** Hold your tongues! both Swabian and Saxon! " 

A bold Bohemian cries; 
** If there 's a heaven upon this earth, 

In Bohemia it lies. 

" There the tailor blows the flute, 
And the cobbler blows the horn, 
And the miner blows the bustle, 
Over mountain ooroe and bourn." 



And then the landlord's daughter 

Up to heaven raised her hand, 
And said, " Ye may no more contend, 

There hes the happiest land! " 

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 



ST. AGNES' EVE. 

Deep on the convent-roof the snows 

Are sparkling to the moon: 
My breath to heaven like vapor goes: 

May my soul follow soon ! 
The shadows of the convent-towers 

Slant down the snowy sward. 
Still creeping with the creeping hours 

That lead me to my Lord: 
Make Thou my spirit pure and clear 

As are the frosty skies, 
Or this first snowdrop of the year 

That in my bosom lies. 

^s these white robes are soil'd and dark 
To yonder shining ground; 



348 BALLADS AND LYRICS. 

As this pale taper's earthly spark, 

To yonder argent round; 
So shows my soul before the Lamb, 

My spirit before Thee ; 
So in my earthly house I am. 

To that I hope to be. 
Break up the heavens, O Lord! and far, 

Thro' all yon starlight keen, 
Draw me, thy bride, a glittering star, 

In raiment white and clean. 

He lifts me to the golden doors; 

The flashes come and go; 
All heaven bursts her starry floors, 

And strows her light below, 
And deepens on and up! the gates 

Roll back, and far within 
For me the Heavenly Bridegroom waits. 

To make me pure of sin. 
The sabbaths of Eternity, 

One sabbath deep and wide — 
A light upon the shining sea — 

The BrideoToom with his bride! 

Alfred Tenx\son. 



THE ROPEWALK. 

Ix that building, long and low, 
With its windows all a-row. 

Like the port-holes of a hulk, 
Human spiders spin and spin, 
Backward down their threads so thin 

Dropping, each a hempen bulk. 



THE ROPE WALK, 349 

At the end, an open door; 
Squares of sunshine on the floor 

Light the long and dusky lane; 
And the whirring of a wheel, 
Dull and drowsy, makes me feel 

All its spokes are in my brain. 

As the spinners to the end 
Downward go and reascend, 

Gleam the long threads in the sun; 
While within this brain of mine 
Cobwebs brighter and more fine 

By the busy wheel are spun. 

Two fair maidens in a swing, 
Like white doves upon the wing, 

First before my vision pass; 
Lauo;hino^, as their gentle hands 
Closely clasp the twisted strands, 

At their shadow on the grass. 

Then a booth of mountebanks, 
With its smell of tan and planks. 

And a girl poised high in air 
On a cord, in spangled dress, 
With a faded loveliness. 

And a weary look of care. 

Then a homestead among farms, 
And a woman with bare arms 

Drawing water from a well; 
As the bucket mounts apace, 
With it mounts her own fair face, 

As at some magician's spell. 



350 BALLADS AXD LYRICS. 

Then an old man in a tower, 
Kinging loud the noontide hour, 

While the rope coils round and round 
Like a serpent at his feet, 
And again, in swift retreat, 

Nearly lifts him from the ground. 

Then within a prison-yard, 
Faces fixed, and stern, and hard. 

Laughter and indecent mirth; 
Ah! it is the [rallows-tree ! 
Breath of Christian charity. 

Blow, and sweep it from the earth I 

Then a school-boy, with his kite 
Gleaminor in a skv of licrht, 

And an eager, upward look ; 
Steeds pursued through lane and field; 
Fowlers with their snares concealed ; 

And an anoler bv a brook. 

Ships rejoicing in the breeze. 
Wrecks that float o'er unknown seas, 

Anchors dragrored througrh faithless sand ; 
Sea-fog drifting overhead. 
And, with lesseninor line and lead, 

Sailors feehng for the land. 

All these scenes do I behold, 
These and many left untold, 

In that buildinop Ions: and low ; 
While the wheel goes round and round, 
With a drowsy, dreamy sound. 

And the spinners backward go. 

Henry AVadsworth Longfellow. 




Ships rejoicing in the breeze." See p. 350. 



T 



THE FORCED RECRUIT. 351 

THE FORCED RECRUIT. 

SOLFERINO, 1859. 

In the ranks of the Austrian you found him, 

He died with his face to you all; 
Yet bury him here where around him 

You honor your bravest that fall. 

Venetian, fair- featured and slender, f 

He lies shot to death in his youth, 
With a smile on his lips over-tender 

For any mere soldier's dead mouth. 

No stranger, and yet not a traitor, 

Though alien the cloth on his breast, \ 

Underneath it how seldom a greater 

Youno; heart has a shot sent to rest! 

By your enemy tortured and goaded 

To march with them, stand in their file, 
His musket (see) never was loaded. 

He facing your guns with that smile I 

As orphans yearn on to their mothers, 
He yearned to your patriot bands : 
*' Let me die for our Italy, brothers, 

If not in your ranks, by your hands ! 

*' Aim straightly, fire steadily! spare me 
A ball in the body which may 
Deliver my heart here, and tear me 
This badge of the Austrian away! " 



352 BALLADS AXD LYRICS. 

So thought he, so died he this morning. 

What then ? many others have died. 
Ay, but easy for men to die scorninor 

The death-stroke, who fought side by side, 

One tricolor floating above them; 

Struck down by triumphant acclaims 
Of an Italy rescued to love them 

And blazon the brass with their names. 

But he, without witness or honor, 

Mixed, shamed in his country's regard, 

With the tyrants who march in upon her, 
Died faithful and passive ; 't was hard. 

'T was sublime. In a cruel restriction 

Cut off from the guerdon of sons, 
With most filial obedience, conviction. 

His soul kissed the lips of her guns. 

That moves you? Xay, grudge not to show it, 
While digoing a grave for him here : 

The others who died, says your poet. 
Have glory, — let him have a tear. 

Elizabeth Barrett Browning.^ 

1 Elizabeth Baeeett Browning, the daughter of Mr 
Barrett, a wealthy London merchant, was bom in Ledbury, 
about 1807. She began to write verses while still a child, and 
displayed strong hterary tastes. She speedily acquired reputa- 
tion both for her learning and for her writiugs. In 1846 she 
married Eobert Browning. She wrote many poems, both long 
and short, of varying merit, some of a very high order, and 
pubhshed some translations from the Greek. She died in Flor- 
ence, in 1861. 



n 



THE CUMBERLAND. 3o3 



THE CUMBERLAND. 

At anchor in Hampton Roads we lay, 

On board of the Cumberland, sloop-of-war; 
And at times from the fortress across the bay 
The alarum of drums swept past, 
Or a bugle blast 
From the camp on the shore. 

Then far away to the south up rose 

A little feather of snow-white smoke, 
And we knew that the iron ship of our foes 
Was steadily steering its course 
To try the force 
Of our ribs of oak. 

Down upon us heavily runs, 

Silent and sullen, the floating fort; 
Then comes a puff of smoke from her guns, 
And leaps the terrible death. 
With fiery breath, 
From each open port. 

We are not idle, but send her straight 

Defiance back in a full broadside! 
As hail rebounds from a roof of slate, 
Rebounds our heavier hail 
From each iron scale 
Of the monster's hide. 

Strike your flag! " the rebel cries, 

In his arrogant old plantation strain. 
Never! " our gallant Morris re])lies; 

'* It is better to sink than to yield! " 
23 



-t 






i 

354 BALLADS AND LYRICS, f 



And the whole air pealed 



With the cheers of our men. \ 

Then, like a kraken huge and black, | 

She crushed our ribs in her iron grasp! J 

Down went the Cumberland all a wrack, / 

\ With a sudden shudder of death, 1 

I And the cannon's breath 

I For her dying gasp. ;^ 

I Next morn, as the sun rose over the bay, 

Still floated our flag at the mainmast head. 
Lord, how beautiful was Thy day! 

I Every waft of the air . 

Was a whisper of prayer, 
Or a dirge for the dead. 

Ho! brave hearts that went down in the seas! 
Ye are at peace in the troubled stream; 
V Ho! brave land! with hearts like these, 

Thy flag, that is rent in twain. 
Shall be one again, 
And without a seam! 

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 



1 



JONATHAN TO JOHN 355 | 



JONATHAN TO JOHN.i 



It don't seem hardly right, John, 
When both my hands was full, 
To stump me to a fight, John, — 
Your cousin, tu, John Bull! 
Ole Uncle S. sez he, *' I guess 
We know it now," sez he, 
*' The lion's paw is all the law, 
Accordin' to J. B., 
Thet 's fit for you an' me! " 

You wonder why we 're hot, John ? 

Your mark wuz on the guns, 
The neutral guns, thet shot, John, 
Our brothers an' our sons : 
Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess 
There 's human blood," sez he, 
*' By fits an' starts, in Yankee hearts, 
Though 't may surprise J. B. 
More 'n it would you an' me." 

Ef / turned mad dogs loose, John, 
On your front-parlor stairs, 

1 This poem refers to the period of our difficulties with Eng- 
land after what was known as the " Trent affair." November 
19, 1861, Captain Wilkes, in command of the Federal war 
steamer San Jacinto, boarded the British mail packet Trent, 
and took out the ambassadors of the Southern Confederacy, 
Mason and Slidell, who were on their way to England. This 
was a gross infraction of neutral rights, and President Lincoln 
wisely gave up the prisoners. But the hostile attitude of Eng- 
land and her sympathy with the South excited just and deep in- 
dignation on the part of the United States. England, after the ^ 
war, expiated her conduct by the treaty of Washington and by 
the award of the Geneva arbitration. 




356 BALLADS AND LYRICS. 

Would it jest meet your views, John, 
To wait an' sue their heirs ? 

Ole Uncle S. sez he, '' I guess, 

I on'y guess," sez he, 
*' Thet ef Yattel on his toes fell, 

' T would kind o' rile J. B., 

Ez wal ez you an' me ! " 

Who made the law thet hurts, John, 
Heads I win, — ditto tails ? 
**/. 5." was on his shirts, John, 
Onless my memory fails. 

Ole Uncle S. sez he, *'I guess 
(I 'm good at thet)," sez he, 
*' Thet sauce for goose ain't ^es^ the juice 
For ganders with J. B., 
No more 'n with you an' me! " 

When your rights was our wrongs, John, 

You did n*t stop for fuss, — 
Britanny's trident prongs, John, 
Was sood 'nouo^h law for us. 
Ole Uncle S. sez he, " I guess. 
Though physic's good,*' sez he, 
*' It does n't f oiler thet he can s waller 
Prescriptions signed 'J. B.,' 
Put up by you an' me! " 

We own the ocean, tu, John: 

You mus' n' take it hard, 
Ef we can't think with you, John, 
It 's jest your own back-yard. 
Ole Uncle S. sez he, " I guess, 
Ef thet 's his claim," sez he, 
** The fencin'-stuff '11 cost enouorh 



» 



JONATHAN TO JOHN 357 

To bust up friend J. B., 
, Ez wal ez you an* me! " 

Why talk so dreffle big, John, ^ 

Of honor, when it meant 

You did n't care a fig, John, 

But jest for ten per cent f 

Ole Uncle S. sez he, *' I guess 
He 's like the rest,'' sez he: 
*' When all is done it 's number one 
Thet 's nearest to J. B., 
Ez wal ez t' you an' me!*' 

We give the critters back, John, 

Cos Abram thouoht 't was rio;ht; 
It warn't your bullyin' clack, John, 
Provokin' us to fio;lit. 

Ole Uncle S. sez he, " I guess 
We 've a hard row," sez he, 
*^ To hoe jest now; but thet, somehow. 
May happen to J. B. , 
Ez wal ez you an' me! " 

We ain't so weak an' poor, John, 
I With twenty million people. 

An' close to every door, John, 
A school-house an' a steeple. 
Ole Uncle S. sez he, *' I guess 
It is a fact," sez he, 
'* The surest plan to make a man 
Is, Think him so, J. B., 
Ez much ez you or me! " 



Our folks believe in Law, John; 
An' it 's for her sake now. 






358 



BALLADS AND LYRICS. 



They've left the axe an' saw, John, 
The anvil an' the plough. 

Ole Uncle S. sez he, '* I guess, 

Ef *t warn't for law," sez he, 
*' There 'd be one shindy from here to Indy; 

An' thet don't suit J. B. 

(When 't ain't 'twixt you an' me!) " 



We know we 've got a cause, John, 

Thet 's honest, just, an' true; 
We thought 't would win applause, John, 
Ef nowheres else, from you. 
Ole Uncle S. sez he, " I guess 
His love of rights," sez he, 
*' Hangs by a rotteil fibre o' cotton: 
There's natur' in J. B., 
Ez wal ez you an' me!" 

The South says, '* Poor folks down! " Johu, 

An' " All men up P^ say we, — 
White, yaller, black, an' brown, John: 
Now which is your idee ? 

Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess, 
John preaches wal," sez he; 
** But, sermon thru, an' come to du 
Why, there 's the old J. B. 
A crowdin' you an' me ! " 



Shall it be love, or hate, John ? 

It 's you thet 's to decide; 
A'm^t your bonds held by Fate, John, 
Like all the world's beside? 
Ole Uncle S., sez he, " I guess 
Wise men forgive," sez he, 
** But not forget; an' some time yet 



BARBARA FRIETCHIE. 359 

Thet truth may strike J. B., 
Ez wal ez you an' me! " 

God means to make this land, John, 

Clear thru, from sea to sea, 
Believe an' understand, John, 
The wuth o' bein' free. 

Ole Uncle S., sez he, ''I guess 
God's price is high," sez he; 
*' But nothin' else than wut He sells 
Wears long, an' thet J. B. 
May larn, like you an' me ! " 

James Russell Lowell. 



BARBARA FRIETCHIE. 

Up from the meadows rich with corn. 
Clear in the cool September morn, 

The clustered spires of Frederick stand 
Green- walled by the hills of Maryland. 

Round about them orchards sweep, 
Apple and peach tree fruited deep, — 

Fair as the garden of the Lord 

To the eyes of the famished rebel horde, 

On that pleasant morn of the early fall 
When Lee marched over the mountain- wall, 

C)ver the mountains windino; down, 
Horse and foot, into Frederick town. 



360 BALLADS AND LYRICS. 



Forty flags with their silver stars, 
Forty flags with their crimson bars, 



Flapped in the morning wind: the sun 
Of noon looked down, and saw not one. 

Up rose Barbara Frietehie then. 
Bowed with her fourscore years and ten ; 

Bravest of all in Frederick town. 

She took up the flag the men hauled down ; 

In her attic window the staff she set, 
To show that one heart was loyal yet. 

Up the street came the rebel tread, 
Stonewall Jackson ridings ahead. 

Under his slouched hat left and right 
He glanced: the old flag met his sight. 

** Halt ! " — The dust-brown ranks stood fast, 
it Fire ! »' _ Out blazed the rifle-blast. 

It shivered the window, pane and sash ; 
It rent the banner with seam and gasli. 

Quick, as it fell, from the broken staff 
Dame Barbara snatched the silken scarf. 

She leaned far out on the window-sill, 
And shook it forth with a royal will. 

** Shoot, if you must, this old gray head, 
But spare your country's flag," she said. 




'' She leaned far out on the window sill.*' See p. 360. 



BARBARA FRIETCHIE. 361 

A shade of sadness, a blush of shame, 
Over the face of the leader came ; 

The nobler nature within him stirred 
To life at that woman's deed and word : 

* Who touches a hair of yon gray head 
Dies like a dog ! March on ! '' he said. 

All day long through Frederick street 
Sounded the tramp of marching feet : 

All day long that free flag tost 
Over the heads of the rebel host. 

Ever its torn folds rose and fell 

On the loyal winds that loved it well ; 

And through the hill-gaps sunset light 
Shone over it with a warm good-night. 

j Barbara Frietchie's work is o'er 

j And the rebel rides on his raids no more. 

I 

I Honor to her ! and let a tear 

\ Fall, for her sake, on Stonewall's bier. 

\ 

\ Over Barbara Frietchie's grave, 

I Fl3,g of Freedom and Union, wave ! 

Peace and order and beauty draw 
Round thy symbol of light and law; 

And ever the stars above look down 
On thy stars below in Frederick town ! 

John Greenleaf Whittiek. 



362 BALLADS AND LYRICS. 

THE OLD SERGEANT. 

JANUARY 1, 1863. 

The Carrier cannot sing to-day the ballads 

With which he used to go, 
Rhyming the glad rounds of the happy New Years 

That are now beneath the snow: 

For the same awful and portentous Shadow 

That overcast the earth, 
And smote the land last year with desolation, 

Still darkens every hearth. 

And the Carrier hears Beethoven's mighty death-march 

Come up from every mart ; 
And he hears and feels it breathinsc in his bosom, 

And beating in his heart. 

And to-day, a scarred and weather-beaten veteran 

Again he comes along, 
To tell the story of the Old Year's struggles 
In another New Year's sonsr. 



o 



A.nd the song is his, but not so with the story ; 

For the story, you must know, 
Was told in prose to Assistant- Surgeon Austin, 

By a soldier of Shiloh: 

By Robert Burton, who was brought up on the Adams, 
With his death- wound in his side ; 

And who told the story to the Assistant- Surgeon, 
On the same night that he died. 

But the sinorer feels it will better suit the ballad. 
If all should deem it ric^ht, 



THE OLD SERGEANT. 363 

To tell the story as i£ what it speaks of 
Had happened but last night. 



** Come a little nearer, Doctor, — thank you, — let me 

take the cup: 
Draw your chair up, — draw it closer, — just another 

little sup! 
May be you may think I 'm better; but I 'm pretty well 

used up, — 
Doctor, you 've done all you could do, but I 'm just 

a-going up! 

" Feel my pulse, sir, if you want to, but it ain't much 

use to try " — 
'* Never say that," said the Surgeon, as he smothered 

down a sigh; 
'' It will never do, old comrade, for a soldier to say 

die!" 
" What you say will make no difference, Doctor, when 

you come to die." 

** Doctor, what has been the matter?" *'You were 

very faint, they say ; 
You must try to get to sleep now." ^' Doctor, have I 

been away? " 
'* Not that anybody knows of!" "Doctor — Doctor, 

please to stay! 
There is something I must tell you, and you won't 

have long to stay! 

'' I have got my marching orders, and I 'm ready now 

to go; 
Doctor, did you say I fainted? — but it could n't ha' 

been so, — 



364 



BALLADS AND LYRICS. 



For as sure as I 'm a Sergeant, and was wounded at 

Sliiloh, 
I 've this very night been back there, on the old field 

of Shilohl 

'* This is all that I remember: The last time the 

Lighter came, 
And the lights had all been lowered, and the noises 

much the same. 
He had not been oone five minutes before somethingr 

called my name: 
' Orderly Sergeant — Robert Burton! ' — just 

that way it called my name. 

*' And I wondered who could call me so distinctly and 

so slow, 
Knew it could n't be the Lighter, — he could not have 

spoken so, — 
And I tried to answer, * Here, sir! 'but I couldn't 

make it go ; 
For I could n't move a muscle, and I could n't make it 

go- 

" Then I thought: It's all a nightmare, all a humbugr 

and a bore; 
Just another foolish grape-vine'^ — and it won't come 

any more; 
But it came, sir, notwithstanding, just the same way 

as before: 
Orderly Sergeant — Robert Burton!' — even 

louder than before. 



'* That is all that I remember, till a sudden burst of 
light, 

1 A false story, a hoax. 



THE OLD SERGEANT, 365 

A.nd I stood beside the River, where we stood that 

Sunday night, 
Waiting to be ferried over to the dark bluffs opposite, 
When the river was perdition and all hell was oppo- 
site! — 

*' And the same old palpitation came again in all its 
power, 

And I heard a Bugle sounding, as from some celestial 
Tower; 

And the same mysterious voice said: ' It is the Elev- 
enth Hour! 

Orderly Sergeant — Robert Burton — it is 
the Eleventh Hour!' 

''Doctor Austin! — what day is this?" "It is 

Wednesday night, you know." 
"Yes, — to-morrow will be New Year's, and a right 

good time below ! 
What time is it, Doctor Austin? " " Nearly Twelve." 

" Then don't you go! 
Can it be that all this happened — all this — not an 

hour ago ! 

* There was where the gunboats opened on the dark 

rebellious host; 
And where Webster semicircled his last guns upon the 

coast ; 
There were still the two log-houses, just the same, or 

else their ghost — 
And the same old transport came and took me over — 

or its ghost ! 

And the old field lay before me all deserted far and 
wide; 



366 BALLADS AND LYRICS. 

There was where they fell on Prentiss — there Mc- 

Clernand met the tide ; 
There was where stern Sherman rallied, and where 

Hm'lbut's heroes died, — 
Lower down, where Wallace charged them, and kept 

eharginoj till he died. 

'* There was where Lew Wallace showed them he was 

of the canny kin, 
There was where old Nelson thundered, and where 

Rousseau waded in; 
There McCook sent 'em to breakfast, and we all began 

to win — 
There was where the grape-shot took me, just as we 

beo^an to win. 

** Now, a shroud of snow and silence over everything 

was spread; 
And but for this old blue mantle and the old hat on 

my head, 
I should not have even doubted, to this moment, I 

was dead, — 
For my footsteps were as silent as the snow upon the 

dead! 

** Death and silence! — Death and silence! all around 
me as I sped ! 

And behold, a mighty Tower, as if builded to the 
dead, 

To the Heaven of the heavens lifted up its mighty 
head. 

Till the Stars and Stripes of Heaven all seemed wav- 
ing from its head ! 

" Round and mighty based it towered up into the in- 
finite — 



i 



THE OLD SERGEANT. 367 

A^nd I knew no mortal mason could have built a shaft 

so bright; 
For it shone like solid sunshine; and a winding stair of 

light 
Wound around it and around it till it wound clear out 

of sight! 

"And, behold, as I approached it — with a rapt and 

dazzled stare, — 
Thinking that I saw old comrades just ascending the 

great Stair, — 
Suddenly the solemn challenge broke of — ' Halt, and 

who goes there ! ' 
* I'm a friend,' I said, * if you are.' ' Then advance, 

sir, to the Stair! ' 

*' I advanced! That sentry, Doctor, was Elijah 

Ballantyne ! — J 

First of all to fall on Monday, after we had formed the | 

line 1 — I 

^Welcome, my old Sergeant, welcome! Welcome by | 

that countersiojn! ' I 

And he pointed to the scar there, under this old cloak [j 

of mine ! | 

I 
I '^ As he grasped my hand, I shuddered, thinking onh l 

I of the grave; :; 

h But he smiled and pointed upward with a bright and 

bloodless orlaive: 
, 'That's the way, sir, to Head-quarters.' 'What 

1 Head-quarters?' * Of the Brave.' 

' But the great Tower ? ' ' That was builded of the 
great deeds of the Brave ! ' 



Ktf!vikCjUCi<:x J 



368 BALLADS AND LYRICS. \^ 

.« 

'' Then a sudden shame came o'er me at his uniform \ 

of light; 
At my own so old and battered, and at his so new and 

bright ; 
* Ah I ' said he, ' you have forgotten the new uniform 

to-niglit, — 
Hurry back, for you must be here at just twelve o'clock 

to-night!* 

"And the next thing I remember, you were sitting 
5 there, and I — 

J Doctor — did you hear a footstep? Hark! — God bless 

you all! Good -by! 

Doctor, please to give my musket and my knapsack, 
\ when I die, 

\ To my son — my son that's coming, — he won't get 

\ here till 1 die ! 



*' Tell him his old father blessed him — as he never 

did before, — 
And to carry that old musket ' ' — Hark ! a knock is at 

the door ! — 
'' Till the Union " — See! it opens ! — '' Father ! 
, Father ! speak once more ! ' ' 

\ •' Bless you ! " — gasped the old, gray Sergeant. And 

he lay and said no more! 

FORCEYTHE WlLLSON.^ 



i FoRCEYTHE WiLLSON WES Dom m Little Grenesee, New York, 

In 1857, and died in Alfred, New York, in 1867 His fame rests 

wholly on this poem 

\ 
\ \ 



'-»4 



THE ARSENAL AT SPRINGFIELD, 369 



THE ARSENAL AT SPRINGFIELD. 

This is the Arsenal. From floor to ceiling, \ 

Like a huge organ, rise the burnished arms ; \ 

But from their silent pipes no anthem pealing | 

Startles the villages with strano-e alarms. i 

Ah! what a sound will rise, how wild and dreary, 

When the death- angel touches those swift keys! 
What loud lament and dismal Miserere 

Will mingle with their awful symphonies! ] 

I hear even now the infinite fierce chorus, 

The cries of ao;onv, the endless o-roan, 
Which, throuo'h the ao-es that have o:one before us, 

In lono' reverberations reach our own. 

On helm and harness rino;s the Saxon hammer, 
Through Cimbric forest roars the Norseman's song, 

And loud, amid the universal clamor, < 

O'er distant deserts sounds the Tartar sonor. , 

I hear the Florentine, who from his palace 

Wheels out his battle-bell with dreadful din, \ 

And Aztec priests upon their teocallis 

Beat the wild war-drums made of serpent's skin ; 

The tumult of each sacked and burning village ; 

The shout that every prayer for mercy drowns; 
The soldiers' revels in the midst of pillage; 

The wail of famine in beleaguered towns ; 

The bursting shell, the gateway wrenched asunder, ' 

The rattlino; musketrv, the clashino: blade: 
24 



-f 



370 BALLADS AXD LYRICS. 

And ever and anon, in tones of thunder, 
The diapason of the cannonade. 

Is it, O man, with such discordant noises, 
With such accursed instruments as these, 

Tliou drownest Xature's sweet and kindly voices, 
And jarrest the celestial harmonies? 

Were half the power that fills the world with terror, 
Were half the wealth bestowed on camps and courts, 

Given to redeem the human mind from error, 
There were no need of arsenals or forts: 

The warrior's name would be a name abhorred! 

And every nation, that should lift again 
Its hand against a brother, on its forehead 

Would wear forevermore the curse of Cain! 

Down the dark future, through long generations, 
The echoing sounds grow fainter and then cease; 

And like a bell, with solemn, sweet vibrations, 

I hear once more the voice of Christ say, *• Peace ! ' 

Peace! and no longer fi'om its brazen portals 

The blast of War's great organ shakes the skies! 

But beautiful as son org of the immortals, 
The holy melodies of love arise. 

Hknry Wads worth Longfellow. 



immiHint ti»mmmmmmmKmmmmmammmammmKmmmmKmmmmBKmKmmmmmBmamma^^^^^^^tmmm,mmmj^i^—^^^^' I 



BEFORE SEDAN. 37] 



BEFORE SEDAN. 

Here, in this leafy place, 

Quiet he lies, 
Cold, with his sightless face 

Turned to the skies; 
'T is but another dead; 
All you can say is said. 

Carry his body hence, — 
Kings must have slaves ; 

Kings climb to eminence 
Over men's graves: 

So this man's eye is dim, — 

Throw the earth over him. 

What was the white you touched. 

There, at his side ? 
Paper his hand had clutched 

Tight ere he died; 
Message or wish, may be ; 
Smooth the folds out, and see. 

Hardly the worst of us 
Here could have smiled ! 

Only the tremulous 
Words of a child, — 

Prattle, that has for stops 

Just a few ruddy drops. 

Look. She is sad to miss, 

Morninor and nio-ht, 
His — her dead father's — kiss; 

Tries to be brii^ht, 



iii'ii'ini/r ' ■ jaoiiMi 



372 BALLADS AND LYRICS, 

Grood to mamma, and sweet. 
That is all. ** Marguerite." 



Ah, if beside the dead 

Slumbered the pain ! 
Ah, if the hearts that bled 

Slept with the slain ! 
If the grief died, — but no, — 
Death will not have it so. 

Austin Dobson.^ 



AN ENVOY TO AN AMERICAN LADY. 

Beyond the vague Atlantic deep, 
Far as the farthest prairies sweep, 
Where forest-glooms the nerve appal, 
Where burns the radiant Western fall, 
One duty lies on old and young, — 
With filial piety to guard. 
As on its greenest native sward. 
The glory of the English tongue. 
That ample speech! that subtle speech I 
Apt for the need of all and each: 
Strong to endure, yet prompt to bend 
AVherever human feelings tend. 
Preserve its force, expand its powers; 
And throucrh the maze of civic life, 

1 A L'STiN DoBSON, bom in 1840, is an English poet, who has 
recently come into notice and acquired reputation as the author 
of two or three volumes of graceful verses. 



A 



THE END OF THE PLAY. 373 

In Letters, Commerce, even in Strife, 
Forget not it is vours and ours. 

Lord Houghton.^ 



THE END OF THE PLAY. 

The play is done ; the curtain drops, 

Slow falling to the prompter's bell; 
A moment yet the actor stops. 

And looks around, to say farewell. 
It is an irksome word and task ; 

And, when he 's laughed and said his say, 
He shows, as he removes the mask, 

A face that 's anything but gay. 

One word, ere yet the evening ends. 

Let 's close it with a parting rhyme. 
And pledge a hand to all young friends, 

As fits the merry Christmas time. 
On life's wide scene you, too, have parts, 

That Fate erelong shall bid you play ; 
Good night ! with honest gentle hearts 

A kindly greeting go alway ! 

Good-night ! — I'd say, the griefs, the joys, 
Just hinted in this mimic page, 

1 Richard Monckton Milnes is an English statesman 
Mnd writer. He was born in Yorkshire in 1809, and graduated 
^t Cambridge University in 1831. He was elected to Parlia- 
ment in 1837 for Pontefract, which he continued to represent 
until 1863, when he was raised to the peerage as Baron Hough- 
ton. 



374 BALLADS AND LYRICS. 

The triumphs and defeats of boys, 

Are but repeated in our age. 
I'd say, your woes were not less keen, 

Your hopes more vain, than those of men; 
Your pangs or pleasures of fifteen 

At forty-five played o'er again. 



I 'd say we suffer and we strive 

Not less nor more as men than boys ; 
With grizzled beards at forty-five. 

As erst at twelve in corduroys. 
And if, in time of sacred youth, 

We learned at home to love and pray, 
Pray Heaven that early Love and Truth 

May never wholly pass away. 



And in the world, as in the school, 

I 'd say, how fate may change and shift ; 
The prize be sometimes with the fool, 

The race not always to the swift. 
The strong may yield, the good may fall. 

The great man be a vuloar clown, 
The knave be lifted over all, 

The kind cast pitilessly down. 



Who knows the inscrutable desigjn? 

Blessed be He who took and gave ! 
Why should your mother, Charles, not mine, 

Be weeping at her darling's grave ? 
We bow to Heaven that will'd it so, 

That darkly rules the fate of all. 
That sends the respite or the blow. 

That 's free to give, or to recall. 

This crowns his feast with wine and wit: 
Who brouo;ht him to that mirth and state? 



THE END OF THE PLAY. 375 

His betters, see, below him sit, 

Or hunger hopeless at the gate. 
Who bade the mud from Dives' wheel 

To spurn the rags of Lazarus ? 
Come, brother, in that dust we '11 kneel, 

Confessing Heaven that ruled it thus. 

So each shall mourn, in life's advance. 

Dear hopes, dear friends, untimely killed; 
Shall grieve for many a forfeit chance, 

And longing passion unfulfilled. 
Amen! whatever fate be sent, 

Pray God the heart may kindly glow, 
Although the head with cares be bent, 

And whitened with the winter snow. 

Come wealth or want, come good or ill, 

Let young and old accept their part, 
And bow before the Awful Will, 

And bear it with an honest heart, 
Who misses or who wins the prize. 

Go, lose or conquer as you can ; 
But if you fail, or if you rise, 

Be each, pray God, a gentleman. 

A gentleman, or old or young! 

(Bear kindly with my humble lays); 
The sacred chorus first was suno; 

Upon the first of Christmas days : 
The shepherds heard it overhead — 

The joyful angels raised it then: 
Glory to Heaven on high, it said. 

And peace on earth to gentle men. 

My song, save this, is little worth; 
I lay the weary pen aside. 



'fj. TTA** r.^x9»*r^:aiKV,nasii-^iajn^mtfSi,-»i - j <*u::3i*»aiwi««'«».or«j«cjiM 



576 BALLADS AND LYRICS. 

And wish you health, and love, and mirth, 
As fits the solemn Christmas-tide. 

As fits the holy Christmas birth, 

Be this, good friends, our carol still, — 

Be peace on earth, be peace on earth. 
To men of gentle will. 

William Makepeace Thackeray. 



SAY NOT THE STRUGGLE NOUGHT 
AYAILETH. 

Say not the strug-o-le nouoht availeth, 
2 The labor and the wounds are vain, 

The enemy faints not, nor faileth. 

And as things have been they remain. 

i 

ii If hopes were dupes, fears may be b'ars ; 

:j It may be, in yon smoke concealed, 

Your comrades chase e'en now the fliers, 
And, but for you, possess the field. 

For while the tired waves, vainly breaking, 
? Seem here no painful inch to gain, 

^ Far back, through creeks and inlets making, 

■i Comes silent, flooding in, the main. 



And not by eastern windows only, 

When daylight comes, comes in the light, 
■ In front, the sun climbs slow, how slowly, ;- 

j But westward, look, the land is bright. i 

5 Arthur Hugh Clough. . ^ 

i 

5 S 



THE BALLAD OF AGIN COURT. 377 



THE BALLAD OF AGINCOURT.i 

Fair stood the wind for France, 
^ When we our sails advance, 

y 

t Nor now to prove our chance 

■ Longer will tarry; 

; But putting to the main, 

i At Caux, the mouth of Seine, 

I With all his martial train. 

Landed King Harry. 

And taking many a fort, 
Furnished in warlike sort, 
Marcheth tow'rds Agjincourt 

In happy hour; 
Skirmishing day by day, 
I With those that stopp'd his way, 

Where the French gen'ral lay 
V/ith all his power. 

Which in his might of pride, 
King Henry to deride. 
His ransom to provide 
I To the kinsj sending. 

In ~ O 

I Which he neglects the while, 

» As from a nation vile, 

Yet with an angry smile 

I ^'"■■""'"'^°^" 

I 1 This poem and the one which follows were, by the oversight 

I of the Editor, omitted in preparing the first edition of this collec- 

tion, and are therefore added here instead of appearing in their 
proper places. 



378 BALLADS AND LYRICS. 

And turning to his men, 
Quoth our brave Henry then, 
Though they be one to ten, 

Be not amazed. 
Yet have we well begun, 
Battles so bravely won, 
Have ever to the sun 

By fame been raised. 

And for myseK (quoth he) , 

This my full rest shall be, 
England ne'er mourn for me, 

No more esteem me. 
Victor I will remain, 
Or on this earth lie slain, 
Never shall she sustain 

Loss to redeem me. 



Poitiers and Cressy teU, 

When most their pride did swell. 

Under our swords they fell. 

No less our skill is. 
Than when our grandsire great. 
Claiming the regal seat. 
By many a warlike feat 

Lopped the French lilies. 

The Duke of York so dread 
The eager vaward led. 
With the main, Henry sped, 

Amongst his Frenchmen. 
Exeter had the rear, 
A braver man not there, 
O Lord, how hot they were, 

On the false Frenchmen! 



THE BALLAD OF AGIN COURT, 379 

They now to fight are gone, 
Armor on armor shone, 
Drum now to drum did groan, 

To hear, was wonder; 
That with the cries they make, 
The very earth did shake, 
Trumpet to trumpet spake, 

Thunder to thunder. 

Well it their age became, 
O noble Erpingham, 
Which didst the signal aim 

To our hid forces; 
When from a meadow by. 
Like a storm suddenly. 
The English archery 

Stuck the French horses 

With Spanish yew so strong. 
Arrows a cloth yard long, 
That like to serpents stung, 
■ Piercing the weather; 
None from his fellow starts. 
But playing manly parts. 
And like true English hearts. 
Stuck close too-ether. 

When down their bows they threw, 
And forth their bilbos drew, 
And on the French they flew. 

Not one was tardy. 
Arms were from shoulders sent. 
Scalps to the teeth were rent, 
Down the French peasants went, 

Our men were hardy. 



i 



t 



380 BALLADS AND LYRICS. 

This while our noble Kino-, 
His broad sword brandishing, 
Down the French host did ding, 

As to o'erwhelm it, 
And many a deep wound lent, 
His arms with blood besprent, 
And many a cruel dent 

Bruisdd his helmet. 



Gloucester, that duke so good, 
Next of the royal blood, 
For famous England stood, 

With his brave brother ; 
Clarence, in steel so bright, 
Thougrh but a maiden knight, 
Yet in that furious fight 

Scarce such another. 

Warwick in blood did wade, 
Oxford the foe invade, 
And cruel slaughter made. 

Still as they ran up ; 
Suffolk his axe did ply, 
Beaumont and Willoughby, 
Bare them right doughtily, 

Ferrers and Fanhope. 

Upon Saint Crispin's day 
Fought was this noble fray, 
Which fame did not delay 

To England to carry ; 
O when shall English men. 
With such acts fill a pen, 



HYMN. 381 

Or E norland breed aojain 

Such a King Harry ? 

Michael Drayton.^ 



HYMN 

BUNG AT THE COMPLETION OF THE CONCORD MON- 
UMENT, APRIL 19, 1830. 

By the rude bridge that arched the flood, 
Their flag to April's breeze unfurled, 

Here once the embattled farmers stood. 
And fired the shot heard round the world. 

The foe long since in silence slept ; 

Alike the conqueror silent sleeps ; 
And Time the ruined bridge has swept 

Down the dark stream which seaward creeps. 

On this green bank, by this soft stream, 

We set to-day a votive stone ; 
That memory may their deed redeem, 

When like our sires, our sons are gone. 

Spirit, that made those heroes dare 
To die, and leave their children free, 

1 Michael Drayton was bom at Hartshull, Warwickshire, 
England, about the year 1593, and died in 1631. He was a most 
voluminous and generally uninteresting verse writer. His most 
extensive work was an endless description of England entitled 
the Polyolbion. That he was not, however, devoid of poetic fire 
j»nd imagination is amply proved by this spirited ballad. 



382 



BALLADS AND LYRICS, 



Bid Time and Nature gently spare 
The shaft we raise to them and thee. 

Ralph Waldo Emerson.^ 

1 Ralph Waldo Emerson was born in Boston in 1803, grad- 
uated at Harvard College in 1821. Reentered the ministry, be- 
ing the eighth of a consecutive line of clergymen in his family. 
He was a Unitarian at the outset, but became the leader subse- 
quently among the New England Transcendentalists. He won 
his fame as an essayist and philosopher, writing and lecturing 
on matters of public and social interest as well as upon met- 
aphysical subjects. Besides several volumes of prose he pub- 
lished two volumes of poems. He achieved a wide reputation 
both at home and abroad, and a few years since was put forward 
as a candidate for the Rectorship of Glasgow University, and 
received a handsome vote. He lived in retirement at Concord, 
Massachusetts, where he died, April 27, 1882. 



INDEX OF AUTHORS. 



A.DDISON, Joseph. page 

Version of the Nineteenth Psalm 60 

Anonymous. 

OldBallad. — Chevy Chase . . . . . 13 
" " Sir Patrick Spens 22 

Aytoun, William Edmondstoune. 

The Burial-March of Dundee 192 

The Execution of Montrose 22G 

Barbauld, Anna L^titia. 

Life and Death 131 

Browning, Elizabeth Barrett. 

The Forced Recruit 351 

Browning, Robert. 

Boot and Saddle 229 

Home-Thoughts, from the Sea 201 

How- they Brought the Good News from Ghent to 

Aix 235 

Incident of the French Camp 278 

The Lost Leader 200 

Bryant, William Cullen. 

The Death of the Flowers . . . . . .312 

Burns, Robert. 

Bruce to his Men at Bannockburn .... 98 

Is there, for Honest Poverty 82 

John Anderson 97 

Macpherson's Farewell 107 

My Bonnie Mary 96 

My Heart 's in the Highlands 86 

The Banks o' Doon 109 

Byron, George Gordon, Lord. 

She Walks in Beauty 153 

The Destruction of Sennacherib .... 157 

The Isles of Greece 184 

To Thomas Moore 190 

Vision of Belshazzar 159 



384 INDEX OF AUTHORS. 

PAGE 

Campbell, Thomas. 

Battle of the Baltic 139 

Glenara . 113 

Hohenlinden 122 

Lord Ullin's Daughter 117 

The Soldier's Dream 126 

Ye Mariners of England 141 

Clough, Arthur Hugh. 

Green Fields of England 311 

Qua Cursum Ventus 336 

Say not the Struggle Nought Availeth . . . 376 
The Ship 342 

Coleridge, Samuel Taylor. 

KublaKhan 167 

Collins, William. 

Ode written in MDCCXLVI . . . . . .75 

Cowper, William. 

Loss of the Royal George 80 

The Diverting History of John Gilpin . . . .86 

. The Poplar Field 108 

The Solitude of Alexander Selkirk . . . .84 

Cunningham, Allan. 

Sea-Song 135 

DoBsoN, Austin. 

Before Sedan 371 

Dorset, Charles Sackville, Earl of. 

Song written at Sea 55 

Drayton, Michael. 

The Ballad of Agincourt 377 

Dryden, John 

Song for Saint Cecilia's Day, 1687 . . . .57 

Emerson, Ralph Waldo. 

H}Tiin sung at the Completion of the Concord Mon- 
ument 381 

Goldsmith, Oliver. 

An Elegy on that Glory of her Sex, Mrs. Mar}'^ Blaize, 79 
Elegy on the Death of a Mad Dog . . . .77 

Gray, Thomas. 

Elegy written in a Country Churchyard ... 65 
On a Favorite Cat drowned in a Tub of Gold Fishes . 76 
The Bard .... .... 70 



INDEX OF AUTHORS. 385 

PAGE 

Hemans, Felicia Dorothea. 

Bernardo del Carpio 172 

The Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers . . . .182 

Herbert, George. 

Virtue 38 

Herrick, Robert. 

To Blossoms 39 

To Daffodils 41 

Heywood, Thomas. 

Song 28 r 

Holmes, Oliver Wendell. i 

A Rhymed Lesson 308 

DorotW Q. : a Family Portrait 297 ' 

Grandmother's Story of Bunker Hill Battle . . 267 \ 

Lexington 265 

Old Ironsides 202 

The Ballad of the Oysterman ..... 302 \ 

The Deacon's Masterpiece 290 j 

The Pilgrim's Vision 256 ^' 

The Spectre Pig 304 

Hood, Thomas. 

Past and Present 198 

Houghton, Richard Monckton Milnes, Lord. 

An Envoy to an American Lady .... 372 

Ingelow, Jean. 

The High Tide on the Coast of Lincolnshire . . 330 [ 

Jon SON, Ben. 

The Noble Nature 37 

Keats, John. t 

To the Poets ........ 176 

\amb, Charles. 

Hester 188 

Lockhart, J. G. 

Bernardo and Alphonso 169 

The Bridal of Andalla 161 

The Lamentation for Celin ...... 150 

The Lord of Butrago 166 

Longfellow, Henry Wadsworth. 

A Psalm of Life 341 

Burial of the Minnisink 255 

Hymn of the Moravian Nuns of Bethlehem . . . 277 



386 INDEX OF AUTHORS. 

PAGE 

Nuremberg 326 

Paul Revere' s Ride 261 

The Arsenal at Springfield 369 

The Belfry of Bruges 237 

The Cumberland 353 

The Fiftieth Birthday of Agassiz 337 

The Happiest Land 346 

The Xornian Baron 230 

The Old Clock on the Stairs 288 

The Ropewalk 348 

The Skeleton in Armor 206 

The Warden of the Cinque Ports 233 

The Wreck of the Hesperus 203 

Victor Galbraith 282 

Lovelace, Richard. 

To Lucasta, on going to the Wars . . . . 40 

Lowell, James Russell. 

' Aladdin 322 

Auf Wiedersehen 296 

Jonathan to John 355 

TheComlin' 323 

I What Mr. Robinson thinks 300 

^ Macaulay, Tho3ias Babington, Lord. 

Horatius 240 

The Armada, a Fragment 212 

Valentine . ' 294 

Milton, John. 

n Penseroso 50 

L'Allegro 44 

Montrose, James Graham e, Marquis of. 

"I'll never Love Thee more" 43 

Moore, Thomas. 

Pro Patria Mori .... . . 181 

The Journey onwards ....... 144 

Norton, Caroline E. S. 

The Soldier from Bingen 284 

Poe, Edgar Allan. 

The Raven 314 

^OPE, Alexander. 

Solitude 62 

The Dying Christian to his Soul 61 



INDEX OF AUTHORS, 387 

PAGE 
PRAED, WiNTHROP MaCKWOKTH. 

Sir Nicholas at Marston Moor 217 

Prior, Matthew. 

To a Child of Quality 63 

Rogers, Samuel. 

A Wish 108 

The Sleeping Beauty 96 

Scott, Sir Walter. 

Boat Song 133 

Bonny Dundee 191 

Border Ballad 143 

Bruce and the Abbot 99 

Claud Halcro's Song 102 

Coronach 163 

Elspeth's Ballad 120 

Evening 110 

Glee for King Charles 125 

Helvellyn 164 

Hunting Song 105 

Hymn for the Dead 156 

Jock of Hazeldean 146 

Lochinvar 115 

Love of Country 130 

Pibroch of Donuil Dhu 129 

Rebecca's Hymn 158 

Rosabelle . " 127 

Song : County Guy 106 

Song : The Cavalier 124 

Song : " A Weary Lot is Thine, Fair Maid '* . . 138 

Song: Brignal Banks 136 

Song : " There is Mist on the Mountain *' . . . Ill 

The Crusader's Return 119 

The Foray .143 

The Pride of Youth 153 

The Song of Harold Harfager 103 

To the Memory of Edward, the Black Prince . . 183 

Shakespeare. William. 

Ariel's Song 27 

Ariel's Song 23 

A Sea Dirge 28 



388 INDEX OF AUTHORS. 

PAGE 

Fairy's Song 32 

Puck's Song 34 

Song: "Blow, Blow, thou Winter Wind" . . . 35 
Song: "Fear no more the Heat o' the Sun" . . 36 
Song: "Hark, Hark, the Lark" .... 34 

Song : " How should I your True Love Know ? " . 37 

Song of the Fairies 33 

Song: "Tell me, where is Fancy Bred" ... 32 
Song: " Under the Greenwood Tree " . . . .29 

Winter 31 

Shelley, Percy Bysshe. 

The Cloud 178 

Winter 189 

SouTHEY, Robert. 

The Inchcape Rock 147 

Tennyson, Alfred. 

Break, Break 340 

' New Year's Eve. From " In Memoriam " . . .339 

Saint Agnes' Eve 347 

Sir Galahad 343 

The Charge of the Light Brigade .... 280 
; Thackeray, Willl\m Makepeace. 

The End of the Play 373 

The Rose upon my Balcony 310 

• Waller, Edmund. 

Go, Lovely Rose 42 

Whittler, Elizabeth H. 

The Dream of Argyle 227 

i Whittier, John Greenleaf. 

\ Barbara Frietchie 359 

^ In School-Days 320 

Wn^LsoN, Forceythe. 

The Old Sergeant .362 

Wolfe, Charles. 

Burial of Sir John Moore at Corunna . . . 132 
Wordsworth, Willl\m. 

She was a Phantom of Delight 154 

Wotton, Sir Henry. 

Character of a Happy Life 3C 



L: 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES, 



A chieftain to the Highlands bound . 

Ah ! County Guy, the hour is nigh 

A mist was driving down the British Channel 

A soldier of the Legion lay dying in Algiers 

As ships, becalmed at eve, that lay 

As slow our ship her foamy track . 

At anchor in Hampton Roads we lay . 

Attend, all ye who list to hear our noble Eng 

At the gate of old Granada, when all its bolts 

A weary lot is thine, fair maid 

A wet sheet and a flowing sea 

A widow bird sate mourning for her Love 

Ay, tear her tattered ensign down 

Bards of Passion and of Mirth 

Beyond the vague Atlantic deep . 

Blow, blow, thou winter wind 

Boot, saddle, to horse, and away 

Break, break, break .... 

Breathes there the man, with soul so dead . 

Bring the bowl which you boast 

By the rude bridge that arched the flood . . 



land 
are 



Come hither, Evan Cameron 
Come unto these yellow sands 



Deep on the convent-roof the snows 
Earthly arms no more uphold him . 
Fair daffodils, we weep to see 



s praise 
barred 



PAGE 
117 

106 

233 

284 
, 336 

144 
, 353 

212 
. 150 

138 
. 135 

189 
. 202 

176 

. 372 

35 

. 229 

340 
. 130 

125 
. 381 

. 220 
27 

. 347 

227 

. 41 



4 



390 



ISDEX OF FIRST LIXES. 



Fair pledges of a fruitful tree 

Fair stood the ^vind for France . 

Farewell to Xorthmaven 

Farewell, ye dungeons dark and strong . 

Fear no more the heat o' the sun 

From Harmony, from heavenly Harmony 

Full fathom five thy father lies . 

God makes sech nights, all white an' still 
God prosper long our noble King 
Go fetch to me a pint o' wine . 

Go, lovely Rose ! 

Good people all, of every sort . 
Good people all, with one accord . 
Grandmother's mother : her age, I guess 
Green fields of England ! wheresoe'er 
Guvener B. is a sensible man . 



Hail, day of Music, day of Love 

Hail to the chief who in triumph advances 

Half a league, half a league 

Happy the man whose wish and care 

Hark, hark ! the lark at heaven's gate sings 

Have you heard of the wonderful one-hoss shay 

He is gone on the mountain . 

Hence, loathed Melancholy 

Hence, vain deluding joys . 

Here, in this leafy place .... 

High deeds achieved of knightly fame 

How happy is he born and taught . 

How should I your true love know 

How sleep the Brave who sink to rest 



I am monarch of all I survey 

I bring fresh showers for the thirsting flowers 

I climbed the dark brow of the mighty Helvellyn 

In his chamber, weak and dying 

In that building, long and low . 

In the hour of twilight shadows 

^n the market-place of Bruges 

[n the ranks of the Austrian vou found him 



PAGB 

. 39 

377 
. 102 

107 

. 36 

57 

. 28 

323 

. 13 

96 

. 42 

77 

. 79 

297 

. 311 

300 

. 294 

133 

. 280 

62 

. 34 

290 

. 163 

44 

. 50 

371 

. 119 

30 

. 37 

75 

. 84 

178 
. 164 

230 
. 348 

256 
. 237 

351 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES, 



391 



[n the valley of the Pegnitz, where across broad meadow 

landb . 

In Xanadu did Kubla Khan . 

I remember, I remember 

I sprang to the stirrup, and Joris, and he 

Is there, for honest poverty 

It don't seem hardly ri^rht, John 

It is not growing like a tree 

It was a tall young oysterman lived by the 

It was fifty years ago .... 

It was the schooner Hesperus . 

It was the stalwart butcher man . 

John Anderson my jo, John 

John Gilpin was a citizen . 

Just for a handful of silver he left us 



river-side 



Lars Porsena of Clusium 
Life ! I know not what thou art 
Listen, my children, and you shall hear 
Lords, knights, and squires, the numerous 

March, march, Ettrick and Teviotdale 

Mine be a cot beside the hill . 

My boat is on the shore 

My dear and only love, I pray 

My good blade carves the casques of men 

My heart 's in the Highlands . 



band 



PAGE 

326 
167 
198 
235 

82 
355 

37 
302 
337 
203 
304 

97 

86 
200 

240 

131 

261 

63 

143 
108 
190 

43 
343 

86 



Nobl}^, nobly Cape Saint Vincent to the northwest died away 201 
"^"0 stir in the air, no stir in the sea .... 147 
Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note .... 132 
Now baud your tongue, baith wife and carle . . . 120 
Now the hungry lion roars 34 



O, Brignal banks are wild and fair 

Of Nelson and the North .... 

O for the voice of that wild horn 

heard ye yon pibroch sound sad in the gale 

O listen, listen, ladies gay . . » , 



136 
139 
183 
113 
127 



nWTi»W^«r'»« 



392 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 



Once upon a midnight dreary .... 
On Linden, AA'hen the sun was low .... 
On sunny slope and beechen swell 

ship, ship, ship 

Our bugles sang truce — for the night cloud had lower'd 

Over hill, over dale 

0, young Lochinvar is come out of the AYest 



Pack, clouds, away, and welcome day 



Pibroch of Donuil Dhu 
Proud Maisie is in the wood 



Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky . 

Rise up, rise up, Xarifa ! lay the golden cushion down 

Ruin seize thee, ruthless King .... 



Say not the struggle nought availeth 

Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled .... 

She walks ia beaut}', like the night 

She was a phantom of delight .... 

Sleep on, and dream of Heaven awhile . 

Slowly the mist o'er the meadow was creeping . 

Somewhat back from the village street . 

Some words on language may be well applied 

Sound the fife, and cry the slogan . 

Speak, speak, thou fearful guest 

Still sits the school-house by the road 

Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright 

Tell me not, in mournful numbers . 

Tell me not. Sweet, I am unkind 

Tell me where is fancy bred .... 

That day of wrath, that dreadful day 

The abbot on the threshold stood 

The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold 

The breaking waves dashed high 

The Carrier cannot sing to-day the ballads . 

The curfew tolls the knell of parting day 

The isles of Greece, the isles of Greece 

The king sits in Dunfermline town . 



PAGB 

314 
122 
. 255 
342 
126 
32 
115 

28 

, 129 

153 

339 

161 

, 70 

376 

98 

153 

, 154 

96 

265 

288 

308 

192 

, 206 

320 

38 

341 

40 

32 

156 

99 

'157 

182 

362 

65 

184 

22 






INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 



393 



The King was on his throne . . . . . 

The last of our steers on the board has been spread 

The little gate was reached at last .... 

The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year 

The old mayor climbed the belfry tower 

The play is done ; the curtain drops 

The poplars are felled, farewell to the shade 

There is mist on the mountain and night on the vale 

There sat one day in quiet 

The rose upon my balcony 

The spacious firmament on high 

The sun is rising dimly red 

The sun upon the lake is low 

The warrior bowed his crested head 

This is the Arsenal. From floor to ceiling 

'T is like stirring living embers, when, at eighty, one 

members 

To all you ladies now on land . .... 

To horse, to horse, Sir Nicholas! .... 

Toll for the Brave 

To the Lords of Convention 't was Claver'se who spoke 
'T was on a lofty vase's side ..... 

Under the greenwood tree . . . . . 

Under the walls of Monterey 

Up from the meadows rich with corn 

Vital spark of heavenly flame . . . . . 

Waken, lords and ladies gay 

When he who adores thee has left but the name . 
When icicles hang by the wall .... 

When Israel, of the Lord beloved .... 

When I was a beggarly boy 

When maidens such as Hester die .... 

When the dying flame of day 

Where the bee sucks there suck I . . . . 
While the dawn on the mountain was misty and gray 
Why weep ye by the tide, ladie? .... 



re- 



PAOS 

. 159 

143 
. 29G 

312 
. 330 

373 
. 108 

111 
. 346 

310 
. 60 

103 
. 110 

172 
. 369 

267 
55 

217 
80 

191 
76 

29 

282 
359 

61 

105 

181 

31 

158 
322 

188 
277 
28 
124 
146 



394 



IXDEK OF FIRST LINES. 



PAGi 



With some good ten of his chosen men, Bernardo hath ap- 
peared 169 



Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon 
Ye mariners of England 
You know, we French stormed Ratisbon . 
Your horse is faint, my King — my Lord I 
You spotted snakes with double tongue . 



109 
141 
278 
166 



